


Savage Grace

by Frostburn



Series: Shadows and Moonlight [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Faeries - Freeform, Heroic Sabretooth, M/M, Post-Axis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostburn/pseuds/Frostburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Creed discovered the pub by accident and decided to make it his new watering hole. The Pot O'Gold plays host to an interesting mix of workers. From the feisty redheaded waitress, to the austere-looking bartender. Apparently they have nicknamed him 'The Viking.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A mix of characters, drawn primarily from the comics but with some twists thrown in.
> 
> 1\. I'm using the post-AXIS version of Sabretooth.  
> 2\. The Avengers Unity Division is made up of Rogue (as team leader), Hawkeye, the Scarlet Witch, Sabretooth, Captain America, Quicksilver and Falcon  
> 3\. The Avengers portrayed are composites of their various media versions, although whenever possible I lean towards the comics canon.

"Your Viking's back," he heard Vivian's contralto voice in a soft murmur next to his ear.

"He's not my Viking," came Larry's absent reply. He was dividing his attention between the ribald asides and subtle innuendos from Vivian, Charlotte and Ryan, and counting the cash in the till.

"Yours or not, he _does_ look like a berserker, doesn't he?" Charlotte mused out loud, toying with her pen. Her ash-blond hair was in its usual chignon.

Larry glanced up from the cash register, where he was handing over the hourly tallies to Jake the shift manager. His eyes trailed the length of the room until it alighted onto the large figure sitting at the farthest booth at the back of the pub.

Shaggy blond hair, framing a face that--while far from being classically handsome--was arresting with light amber eyes and a strong jawline, delineating into the thick column of his neck and the broad shoulders and muscular build barely contained by the faded brown flannel shirt the man was wearing. Larry had never stood face-to-face with the man before, but gauging his proportions he put the man at six-five to his five-eleven height.

Hence, the 'Viking' nickname he had coined for the man.

"I suppose," he answered, non-commitant.

"Right," Charlotte drawled, drawing out the vowel longer than it should.

"He's not my Viking," he repeated his earlier statement. "He's just a new customer that always comes in on Fridays for his four-glass whiskey."

Ryan snorted, shaking his head as he returned to the kitchen. "Stop being in denial," he said with a grin. "It's April now and he's been coming since January!" The swivelling door hid him from Larry's withering stare.

Larry finished the cash tally and closed the cash register, recording the hourly tally in his log book and Jake signed it.

Turning to Vivian, he asked, "Have you taken his order?"

Vivian shook her head, her auburn curls bobbing with the movement. "I thought you might want to do the honours," she replied saucily with a grin as she left to clear two tables at the front.

Charlotte took that as her cue and left to the front as she circulated amongst the tables. The impish smile she flashed before she turned mirrored the one on Vivian.

Ryan poked his head out from the kitchen. "The man's thirsty!" He hissed sotto voce.

Larry rolled his eyes and moved away from the counter that doubles as the bar. He didn't bother with a menu or the beverage list; he had memorised every item ever since Pot O'Gold had opened three years ago. The man was leaning in the booth with his back to the room, only a slight turn of his head showing he heard the tread made by Larry's boots as he approached.

"The usual?" Larry asked by way of greeting.

The man smirked, his head turned alongside. From this angle, Larry could see that it gave him a slightly feral look. "Am I _that_ predictable?"

Larry returned his smirk, feeling a touch reckless as he replied, "Let's just say you're quite the memorable patron."

"Memorable, huh?" The man huffed as he leaned back in the booth and looked up at Larry. His Adam's apple bobbed as he spoke, and Larry couldn't help his eyes trailing down the man's throat to the collar of his shirt and to the wisps of hair peeking out from the opening. "In what way?"

Larry jerked his eyes back to the other's face, and thanked the Heavens that his dark olive complexion hid his blushes somewhat.

He was transfixed by the man's eyes, now that he is standing two feet away and looking down on him. There was a smidgeon of despair and loss swimming in those golden depths, and simmering close to the surface a hint of an unbreakable will. He realised belatedly that he was staring and the man's amused expression told him that his gaff was noted.

Larry rocked back on his heels, and bent at the waist bringing his face almost level with him. He smiled, knowing that it was one of his best attributes while looking the other in the eyes before dropping his gaze to the man's mouth and flicking back upwards. His normally raspy voice was pitched slightly lower and he murmured, "A gentleman never tells."

Just enough to jar the tension in his favour and he pivoted on his heels, calling out towards the bar, "One Jack coming up!"

He didn't look back, or he would have seen the man's narrow gaze following him. He did not move from behind the bar the entire night until it was time to go home. A glance at the mirrored wall panel opposite the bar told him that his Viking was still seated at his booth when he left.

He got home close to ten. The two-roomer he had rented was as spartan as the day he had first moved in three years ago. He had never accumulated much in the way of personal belongings, and as he rarely brought guests home--save for the occasional one-night-stand--he never saw the point in establishing personal touches.

It made things easier when the time came for him to run.

He tossed his keys onto the bedside table and shucked off the olive green shirt he wore. He walked towards the bathroom, turning on the faucet to fill the sink. Bare-chested, he looked at his reflection.

The man staring back at him didn't leave any clues as to what drove him to move from place to place, constantly looking over his shoulders fearing for the unavoidable pursuit. It didn't tell much about the man who couldn't recall anything beyond the last fifteen years of his life--he knew the exact number of years after trying to backtrack through his memories--but has knowledge of pop-culture references or icons like ABBA and The Beatles.

It only showed a slightly heart-shaped face dominated by large dark brown eyes framed by well-marked eyebrows and long lashes. His high cheekbones were delicate but jaw firm. He had been told once that he would have been considered aloof if he wasn't smiling.

It never hinted at the fact that while he had a pulse, he was able to last several hours without breathing. Or his ability to last days with only an hour of sleep. Or that despite those oddities, the last time he convinced himself to undergo a medical checkup the physician had declared him to be in perfect health.

This had became a morbid ritual for him, as if staring into his own reflection would unlock yet another piece of his past. His rangy build and long limbs didn't spark anything out of the ordinary, although he remembered that he loves running. Sometimes he gets glimpses, flashes of insight he knew to be fragments of his lost memory but the moment they sparked they would be gone just as quickly. Like quicksilver they would elude all his efforts at recalling them until days--or even weeks later, he would suddenly remember a new fact or facet of his life.

Two years ago, he had been slightly unnerved to remember being fucked long and hard that he woke up from one of his rare slumbers drenched in sweat and his own release. He remembered what the man looked like; his sketchbook were filled with several pages of the man's visage.

At least he now knew why Vivian's luscious curves never drew his eye, but have a Viking warrior personified enter the pub and he was reduced to staring like a lust-addled adolescent.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face. He happened to glance at the mirror while he was blotting his hands on the towel when he saw her reflection.

Startled, he let out an oath as he turned around but there was no one behind him. A prickle of certainty told him that he knew the woman. The glossy black hair and cat-like dark eyes tickled something familiar in him. He shook his head and grunted when he drew a blank, and let out a small huff of air.

_It will come to me in time_ , he decided.

He exited the bathroom and went to his usual perch at the window seat. The gibbous moon shone bright and clear, surprisingly in the city. He spent the remaining hours contemplating her silvery roundness until the eastern horizon slowly turned a rosy blush, signaling the break of a new day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild flirtation. Some disclosure.
> 
> A mix of characters, drawn primarily from the comics but with some twists thrown in.
> 
> 1\. I'm using the post-AXIS version of Sabretooth.  
> 2\. The Avengers Unity Division is made up of Rogue (as team leader), Hawkeye, the Scarlet Witch, Sabretooth, Captain America, Quicksilver and Falcon  
> 3\. The Avengers portrayed are composites of their various media versions, although whenever possible I lean towards the comics canon.

Larry looked up from his copy of 'Persuasion' when he heard the door opening. It was a slow Wednesday afternoon and there were only three tables occupied--and by their regulars at that. The pub served light lunches for those who preferred a quick repast and their regulars have cottoned on that they might as well have some food with their afternoon beer.

The Viking strode up to the counter, a small smirk on his face. Larry quirked his eyebrow at him and put away his book after dog-earing his place. he stood up, looking up slightly to meet the other man's eyes.

"Half-day, today?" he queried as his hands moved towards the bank of liquor bottles behind him.

"You can say that," was his reply. "No whiskey for now," he demurred gruffly when he saw the bottle in Larry's grip. "A Coke will do."

"Something to eat as well?" Larry asked, having returned the declined whiskey to its place now busying himself with filling up a glass of cola.

The Viking--Larry chided himself again for calling him that name--sat himself in front of Larry and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the counter. The action bunched up his biceps, making them strain against the sleeves of his royal blue T-shirt. 

"Thanks," he said, taking a small gulp from the proferred glass of soda. "What do you recommend?" he asked, a small smile on his lips.

"Homemade meatball sandwich good for you?"

"If that's what you recommend ..."

"On the house," Larry blurted out, but managing to make it sound smoothly cajoling by adding, "You can pay for the next order."

"How can I say no to free food? It's Victor, by the way."

"Pardon?" Larry asked at the non-sequitur. 

"Victor," the other man reiterated. "My name is Victor."

Larry just stared at him.

Victor returned his gaze levelly, adding, "So you don't have to keep calling me 'The Viking.'"

Larry felt cornered. He was quite certain that his blush now was quite obvious, olive skin notwithstanding. Of course he--Victor--had heard them. They were not exactly circumspect in that regard.

"I confess that we were hardly circumspect," he echoed the thought ruefully. "I apologise if you found it offensive."

"Not really," Victor shrugged. "The free sandwich should wipe the slate clean," he added with a wink.

Larry nodded at that, and couldn't stop the small shiver of excitement down his spine at the wink. He called out the order as he placed the order docket on the cork board near the kitchen door and returned to the bar. He glanced at his forgotten book and decided that reading in front of a customer would be the height of rudeness. He did not feel it necessary to compound his earlier gaff with any more faux pas. The courting travails of Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth would have to wait.

Victor must have seen his sideways glance because he motioned towards the book peeking out from under the counter. His question was unspoken, just those light amber eyes holding Larry in their steady gaze.

Larry let out a small sigh and handed the book over to him. The small paperback was dwarfed by Victor's large hand. Larry couldn't stop staring at his fingers, their strong lines, or the veins running up those forearms. 

_He wondered what those hands would feel like when they grab him by the hips, fingers digging into his flesh while Victor thrusts himself ..._

He caught himself. He felt warm. Unaccountably warm. 

And wouldn't you know it, Victor looked up from perusing the back cover of his book, a slight tilt of his eyebrow as he observed Larry. _Please don't tell me I actually whimpered,_ he thought. 

__"Feeling a bit feverish?" came Victor's question._ _

__A sharp ding from behind jolted him, along with the smell of meatballs and garlic butter. He turned towards the opening between the kitchen and the bar and grabbed the plate of sandwiches._ _

__"There you go," he said, marvelling inwardly at how calm he sounded, depositing the plate an Victor's right. "Bon appetit."_ _

__Victor ignored the plate, his hands still clutching the book. "What's it about?" he asked, motioning to the book._ _

__"Depends on which angle you want to look at," Larry shrugged. "Some would say it's about love lost and found. Some would insist it's a commentary on elitist snobbery."_ _

__"And what would you say?" Victor pressed, thumbing through the well-worn pages._ _

__Larry thought for a while, allowing himself to indulge a whimsical smile. "I think it's about second chances and perception. That we can, if we allow ourselves, to look beyond what we know and what we are told."_ _

__There was a small period of silence as they both ruminated on what he had said._ _

__"Do you believe that?" Victor asked him. "Do you believe in second chances?"_ _

__"I believe," Larry said, measuring his words carefully. Something deep inside him told him that his answer was important to the other man. "People deserve the chance to mend their ways once they realise they were led astray."_ _

__"What about hardened criminals?" Victor pursued, there was now an underlying tone of desperation in his words. "Do you think rapists and murderers deserve a second chance?"_ _

__"If they know what they did before was hurting other people and willing to make reparations I don't see why not," Larry stated simply. "Of course, it's easy to speak about it theoretically but I would like to think that I'd be able to find it within myself to forgive those trespass eventually."_ _

__Victor just stared at him, his grip on the book turning slack._ _

__"I'm sorry if that wasn't the answer you wanted to hear," Larry shrugged. He took the book gently from Victor's hands and placed it at his elbow. "It's yours if you want to borrow it."_ _

__"You're loaning a book to a complete stranger?" Victor asked, his face perplexed as he absently took a bite from his sandwich._ _

__"It's called catch-and-release," Larry answered cryptically. "And if you tell me a little bit about yourself then we wouldn't be strangers now, would we?"_ _

__Victor straightened up on his seat, looking calculatingly at Larry. "Ok, I'll bite," he assented. "What do you want to know?"_ _

__Larry grinned, leaning forward on the counter on his elbows. "I already know your name," he started._ _

__"But I don't know yours," the other returned._ _

__"Touché," Larry allowed. "Larry," he offered. "I like to read."_ _

__"I like Jack Daniels," came Victor's reply._ _

__"I wouldn't have guessed," was Larry's wry response. "I'm more of a wine guy."_ _

__"I'm not married," Victor grinned widely--almost mischievously--as he volunteered the information._ _

__Larry's lips felt paper dry at the statement. It was starting to tease the line between small talk and light flirtation. He took a deep breath and took the plunge. "My off days are Wednesdays and Saturdays."_ _

__Victor's eyebrows rose at that._ _

__"Just in case you want to meet outside of the pub," Larry said off-handedly, feigning nonchalance he didn't feel._ _

__A sharp staccato tattoo of heels came from Larry's left, signalling Vivian approaching the bar. She raised an eyebrow at them when she neared. "Booth felt too lonely?" she asked Victor. "Table six is asking for the check," she mentioned as an aside to Larry._ _

__Victor nodded by way of greeting. He let out a small chuckle. "Seems this a good place for a meal and a nice chat," he answered, taking a small bite from his sandwich._ _

__Vivian smiled her agreement but the glance she levelled at Larry was loaded with unasked questions. He admired her restraint; Charlotte would have insinuated several innuendos by now. He placed the check he printed on a small silver tray and passed it to Vivian. She left after a brief nod at them._ _

__"She seems protective," Victor noted._ _

__"She likes to meddle," Larry snorted, slightly indignant._ _

__"Her heart's in the right place."_ _

__Larry looked at him. Victor had finished the sandwich and was wiping his hand clean on a paper napkin. "What do you normally do when not working?"_ _

__"Read, mostly," he answered, "sometimes I'll take a sketchpad and draw at the park." A pause. "I used to run," he added._ _

__"What made you stop?" Victor asked. He downed the rest of his soda._ _

__"I moved here," Larry answered. He handled the refill to Victor._ _

__"I'm not that much into running but I wouldn't mind keeping you company," Victor suggested. "A guy at work told me to add it to my workout plan."_ _

__Larry gave a very long sweeping look over the other man. "Workout plan?" he asked. "What do you do for a living?"_ _

__"Security," came Victor's answer._ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touching a bit on the Avengers Unity Division. Clint and Victor bond over beer.
> 
> This storyline, while post-AXIS, will ignore the comic-canon upheavals that followed that storyline. Our heroes have been through enough, methinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mix of characters, drawn primarily from the comics but with some twists thrown in.
> 
> 1\. I'm using the post-AXIS version of Sabretooth.  
> 2\. The Avengers Unity Division is made up of Rogue (as team leader), Hawkeye, the Scarlet Witch, Sabretooth, Captain America, Quicksilver and Falcon  
> 3\. The Avengers portrayed are composites of their various media versions, although whenever possible I lean towards the comics canon.

Victor growled as he backhanded the grasping claw away. The limb it was attached to retracted and a skittering sounded as the chitinous creature scrambled away from him. Next to him Hawkeye was observing the Scarlet Witch and Rogue conferring with McCoy on a comm console.

Victor climbed the steps and stood next to Hawkeye. He respected the man for not shying away from him despite what the other knew of Victor's past. Perhaps his own checkered past helped him to understand the need for redemption and acceptance. 

The four of them had responded to an alert that Coney Island had been overrun by "mutant crabs". Although the 'crabs' had been harmless, their trophy-shield size appearance had alarmed the public. 

"Anything?" he asked the archer.

"Nothing yet," Clint answered him. "McCoy did confirm that they are not aliens," he supplied. "Just enhanced artificial intelligence"

"Stark's going to be jealous," Victor grinned. He noted the way Clint stared at him. " What?" he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice.

"I haven't seen you like this before, is all," the archer answered. 

"Meaning?"

"You've been smiling a lot," Clint answered. He glanced meaningfully at Victor before adding, "and disappearing every Friday evening and coming back late. Whoever she is, she must be good for you."

"It's not a woman," Victor groused. He hoped that Clint would drop it.

"It's a man, then?" Clint pressed, intrigued. 

Victor didn't answer, just glared at the other man. Clint held up his hands placatingly. "I'm not judging, just curious!"

Victor managed to calm himself down before giving Clint a rueful chuckle. "It is a guy," he answered but glared at the archer's raised eyebrow before continuing, "but not like the way you think."

Clint just looked at him. "Victor, what you do on your free time is really none of my business. I just want to make sure you're alright."

"Guys," Rogue's voice crackled over the earpiece they were wearing. "Stark is going to send a freight car to move the critters back to the lab. We're done here."

"Noted," Clint answered. "If you don't need us Rogue, then Vic and me are heading off."

"That is so typical, leaving the women to clean up," he heard Wanda's voice in the background, her tone tinged with equal parts exasperation and fondness. 

"We'll take the next one, Wanda," came Victor's voice. 

Clint turned to him, surprise on his face. Victor just shrugged. "Fair's fair," he returned. 

 

* * *

 

"The inversion went that deep, huh?" Clint asked a couple of hours later.

The two men had changed into street clothes after cleaning themselves up at the mansion. By mutual agreement, they decided to take Clint's car. They had been driving aimlessly looking for a likely place to have a drink, until struck by a sudden whimsy Victor had provided Clint the directions to Pot O'Gold. 

"You could say that," Victor answered. He didn't mind opening up to the other man. Clint had always struck him as honest--as far as one can be when one is a government operative. Besides Rogue, he was one of the few who accepted Victor as part of the team after his inversion. 

He looked at the bar, knowing that Larry would not be there. It was Wednesday. He did not miss the sharp look the waitress had given him when she brought their drinks over. It wasn't the redhead. This one was all icy blond perfection. 

"You know how we tend to rationalise our actions" he sled Clint. The other man nodded, thoughtful. He motioned for Victor to continue. "I couldn't do that anymore. I kept remembering people I've hurt. Those helping hands that I bit back ..." he halted, slightly overwhelmed by the grave topic. 

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Clint was saying.

"Anyway," Victor continued with a small smile. "I was having one of my guilt-wracked moments when I found myself outside this place."

"And you decide to drown your sorrows?" Clint asked, askance. "Isn't that ironic?"

"Quite," Victor agreed. "Healing factor is a pain sometimes."

The two men shared a chuckle at the hidden humour of the statement. 

Clint made a signal for a another round before turning back to Victor. "So ..." he dragged the vowel as he began, "tell me about this guy you've been seeing."

"It's not like that," he grumbled as he leaned back into the booth. "He's one of the bartenders. And no, it's his off day today." he tacked on hurriedly when Clint turned to eyeball the man behind the bar. 

"So, spill buddy," Clint pressed. "I'm a thirty-year old divorcé in a high-risk job. Let me live vicariously through you!"

Victor shook his head at Clint's description of himself. In the end he relented. 

"About five-eleven, dark olive skin, black hair and dark brown eyes," he began describing Larry.

"I didn't know you're into Latinos," Clint teased.

Victor grinned at the verbal sally, shaking his head. "He's not Latino. Unless they started speaking with a British accent."

"Blimey, a Limey," Clint continued with his teasing. 

"He kept staring at me like he was a starving man seeing a five-course meal, his friends kept teasing him about it ... to the point they nicknamed me 'The Viking'"

"Did any pillaging and plundering yet?" Clint asked with a cackle as he downed his beer.

Victor gave him a long-suffering look and retorted as the archer swallowed, "Not yet."

The spray of beer across the table was worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on Larry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mix of characters, drawn primarily from the comics but with some twists thrown in.
> 
> 1\. I'm using the post-AXIS version of Sabretooth.  
> 2\. The Avengers Unity Division is made up of Rogue (as team leader), Hawkeye, the Scarlet Witch, Sabretooth, Captain America, Quicksilver and Falcon  
> 3\. The Avengers portrayed are composites of their various media versions, although whenever possible I lean towards the comics canon.

Larry stared at the ceiling. The minute cracks had become his friends, of sorts. They were what was familiar. The dark quiet of his room was unmarred by any light save the one from the living room peeking in under the edge of the bedroom door. Even without sleep he would still allow himself the illusion of being cocooned in its velvet folds. Even if his eyesight remained unaffected. Without a strong light source his vision is muted in shades of Prussian blues. 

Another oddity he had jotted down on the slowly growing list.

He stared at the ceiling, a small frown appearing on his face. It was going to be another sleepless night. The clock on the wall read quarter to four and he was still awake. By his count, this would have made it the ninth night in a row that he had not slept. 

He got up and stretched. The living room was brightly lit by the light by the full moon. He made his way to the window and his favourite perch on the window-seat. A copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ sat spread face down. The worn spine attested to the number of times it had been read. A single finger traced the cover, idly shaping an unseen profile with a patrician nose, strong jawline and shoulder-length feathered hair. 

He caught himself and let out a small sigh. The restlessness would not be ignored. He stood again, feeling the need to feel the cool night air on his skin.

He padded back to his room and the small wardrobe. Five minutes later found him attired in boots, jeans and T-shirt, with a shawl-collar cardigan to keep the sting of the cold at bay. He alighted the steps down to the small foyer of his apartment and peered at the street momentarily before exiting the building. 

Habit had ingrained a healthy dose of caution over the years. 

He knew that no one saw him exit the building. He had timed his exit to match the passing of the small van as it passed in front of his building. He kept to the shadows, keeping his tread and footing even to avoid calling attention to his steps. He allowed a brief moment of musing how he had garnered the habit but it soon passed as he made his way slowly and steadily across the borough. 

He made his way seemingly aimlessly, accostumed to using his body language to mask his agenda. It had become almost instinctive, the exercise of maintaining a part of his focus on his surroundings and another inward as he ruminated on half-digested thoughts. His observant eyes noted the same lit windows of the residences he passed, and he avoided the same crowd of drug dealers huddled at their usual spot.

He passed quickly behind two prostitutes at a street corner, angling himself as he passed by that they barely registered his passing. The occasional car coming from the opposite direction was easier to avoid; he just kept to the shadows. 

He would be like a drawing made on water, and remain forever inscrutable to those who seek to define him.

A swelling of distaste welled up, accompanied by the that brief tinge of familiarity that he should know what incited that spark of emotion. For now however, he ignored it. He had too much to think about. 

He just kept playing the same mantra he remembered from fifteen years ago. It was the earliest memory he had when he had woken up in the hospital, somewhere near Norfolk. Snatches of phrases he didn't understand ... but he knew instinctively held great import. 

_Raze the sky ..._  
Scar the sun ...  
Cast the die ...  
My will be done ... 

He was used by now to that litany coming unbidden to his mind, as if it had been projected into his mind by another person. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that he knew what those disjointed phrases meant but they remained elusive. It was one of the more common phrases that kept intruding into his thoughts. The others made even less sense, as he casted to recall them.

_Sister of the flame ... Bearer of the cold fire ..._

He was focused intently on his own thoughts that he almost missed the soft pad of footsteps that had joined his.

 _Someone follows,_ came that unknown voice in his mind. He was slightly jarred by it as he knew he heard it on a subliminal level. For the last few years he kept getting those snippets of thoughts as if some nebulous form of consciousness was guiding him.

After twice ignoring those unknown thoughts, he had decided to welcome them instead. He would worry about the source when he felt it was time to do so.

He crossed the road, jogging a little when he got to the other side but realised his mistake when he saw two figures melting out from the shadow of the alley in front of him. He was being herded. And quite masterfully, too.

He allowed a flash of respect for his unknown pursuers. They had planned well. Most likely they had noticed his nightly foray onto the streets and thought him easy prey. He berated himself internally for the predictability. 

After a stern admonishment to be more careful, he straightened his back. Let them see that he was not afraid. Let them know that tonight, fear was his weapon. He could feel the adrenaline rush through him. He welcomed the anticipated rush in his mind as he felt his senses flare, reaching out to the environment around him.

The first time he had done this, it was both exhilarating and disturbing. He could feel his sense of self splinter into composite parts, each being aware of the other and the world without. 

The soft chirps of nocturnal birds. The skittering of vermin feet as they scurry in search for food. The cool night air. The soft silvery glow of the moon. The feel of the buildings and the even the cracks in the asphalt under his feet. 

If he were the fanciful sort he could say that they were speaking to him in a language older than Time istelf. He felt both awed and humbled in the beginning, seeing himself as similar to a grain of sand on the vast expanse of the world he had opened himself to. 

The slight sense of ... knowing ... when he turned his attention to the two figures in front of him, and the one coming up behind. These are kindred beings, slightly different but similar on the whole. However, that was where the similarities end. These three were not formed of amity and friendship. These are people shaped by strife and pain; and seek to eliminate potential rivals. These are the kind he always avoided. Largely successfully but it seemed now that his luck was at its last tether.

They have found him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on Victor-Larry interaction. Clint plays wingman. Cameo from Henry McCoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mix of characters, drawn primarily from the comics but with some twists thrown in.
> 
> 1\. I'm using the post-AXIS version of Sabretooth.  
> 2\. The Avengers Unity Division is made up of Rogue (as team leader), Hawkeye, the Scarlet Witch, Sabretooth, Captain America, Quicksilver and Falcon  
> 3\. The Avengers portrayed are composites of their various media versions, although whenever possible I lean towards the comics canon.

Victor waited for Clint outside the medlab. The blonde archer exited the room several minutes later, joined by Rogue and the Beast.

"Thanks for coming over, Hank," Rogue was saying, a fond arm around Beast's waist.

The older man, one of the leading minds in several scientific fields, smiled at her. It was obvious that Rogue held a special place in his heart. "Anything for you, Anna-marie." He turned to Victor and greeted the man. "Victor, how do you find the Avengers so far?"

It was further proof that despite his blue fur and bestial mutation that Henry McCoy possessed a great capacity for grace and forgiveness. Victor knew that even with his inversion to the side of the angels taken at face value certain things remained as the proverbial elephant in the room.

"Good morning, McCoy," he answered. "It's OK, I guess."

Henry allowed a warm chuckle and bumped his shoulder playfully. "Give it time," he advised.

Victor nodded. Not for the first time he wondered at the gentle warmth that coincided whenever these moments of camaraderie occurred. Why had he avoided these feelings before?

"So, what are your findings?" he asked the other man.

The NYPD had alerted them at the crack of dawn to the three bodies found in an alley. Usually homicide cases rarely involved the Avengers Unity Division except that two of the corpses exhibited distinctive physical mutations. The three bodies were submitted for autopsy at the precinct and then delivered for post-mortem testing with Henry, who had arrived two hours ago from the Jean Grey School accompanied by Joanna Cargill.

"They are not mutants, that I am sure off," McCoy answered. "And despite their appearance, they're not even human."

"The look human enough, even the one with the horns," Rogue pointed out.

"Humanoid in shape," Clint mused. "But not genetically. Aliens?"

McCoy shook his head. "Not that I know off. Lilandra gave us quite a comprehensive database of genetic references and none of them matched."

"Let me clarify," Henry replied, warming up to the subject. "They have the baseline human chromosomes. But like mutants, they have several divergent codings in their DNA. As to what they are exactly, that is a mystery."

"Like the Children of the Vault?" Rogue mused out loud.

"So where does that leave us?" Victor asked. 

McCoy shrugged. "For the time being, we'll say it is still under investigation but that the victims were not mutants."

"The last thing we want is mutant-homicide hysteria making its rounds," Rogue agreed.

"Well," Clint said, "I guess that's that. I'll get Natasha to keep her ears open to anything related to this. She might know something."

"Couldn't hurt," Rogue agreed. "Henry, thank you for coming here on such short notice. We certainly appreciate it."

Clint turned from the others, looking at Victor. "Want to spar some? Then grab a bite to eat later?"

Victor shrugged. It's not like he has anything else to do at the moment. He nodded his farewell to McCoy and left with Clint. 

 

* * *

"Hey there, big guy," Vanessa's throaty contralto came from behind him. 

Larry turned from the sink where he was rinsing his hands. Victor was seated at the bar, a little to his right. Vanessa was leaning against the bar with her pen stuck in the mass of red curls on top of her head. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn the redhead was flirting with Victor. 

As if sensing the mild surge jealousy, Victor turned from Vanessa and nodded to him. "The usual," he said with a grin.

"Coming right up," Larry said with a nod, grasping the bottle of Jack Daniels. 

"Something to eat?" Vanessa suggested. "Our grilled salmon is to die for."

Victor shrugged. " Why not," he assented. "Make that two."

"Two, huh?" Vanessa asked, her eyebrows disappearing under the thick fringe of her hair. 

"My friend is parking the car," he said by way of explanation. 

"Another glass of whiskey, then?" Larry asked.

"A friend, you say?" Vanessa asked, mock preening. "Is he as cute as you?"

"Clint's more of a beer guy," Victor answered Larry's question. He turned back to Vanessa and shrugged. "You be the judge," he said with a smirk.

"You'll need a booth, then," Larry suggested. "Should you wish something akin to privacy."

A few minutes later, another man joined Victor. He was slightly shorter than Victor--not surprising, considering the man's six-six frame--but just as well-built. He walked with an easy swagger, the walk of a man who is confident and comfortable with himself. His plum-coloured T-shirt moulded themselves to his broad chest and the sleeves highlighted his impressively developed arms. Larry could hear Vanessa's quiet sigh of appreciation. He was inclined to agree with her unspoken sentiment, imagining being wrapped in those arms ... until he saw the other man's eyes.

The other man's eyes were a cold, icy blue. They were eyes that have seen uncountable horrors and violence; and ocassionally partook in it. Larry felt a slight chill going down his spine as he averted his eyes to busy himself with work. Slightly disquieted, he couldn't shake the small tinge of exhilaration that accompanied the chill he felt. Larry placed a bottle of Corona in front of the man, saying it was on the house before moving back to the other end bar to ostendsibly attend to another patron.

"Right this way, boys," Vanessa said cheekily as she motioned to the back of the bar. Having seated them at the booth Victor had always favoured, she left to punch their order at the till.

After they were seated at the booth the redhead had directed them to, Clint eyed the rangy bartender and made a subtle motion with his eyes. "That the guy?" he murmured as he took a sip of his beer.

Victor snorted in amusement. "Why don't you tell me?"

"That's him," Clint said firmly. 

"Meaning?" Victor asked. His eyes skipped for a moment to Larry but the bartender was gone from his line of sight. 

"I think he likes you," Clint said with a grin. "As in really likes you."

"Oh you've got to be joking," Victor returned. He couldn't stop the slight heat he felt rising to his face.

"Awww, you're blushing," Clint smirked. "Relax. I'm not judging if that's what you go for."

Victor glared at him.

"You could do worse," Clint shrugged. He turned to eye the bartender--Larry--surreptitiously. "Skin like dark teak, huge haunting dark eyes and a surprisingly incredible smile," he continued, listing what he was seeing.

"Why don't you go for him then," Victor grumbled. He was half - hearted at it however, enjoying the playful ribbing from the other man.

Clint turned back to him. " I wouldn't mind but I think he's already spoken for. Can't seem to take his eyes off of you ever since we came in."

"He wasn't even looking at us," Victor pointed out.

"Mirrored wall across the bar," Clint smirked. "He's smart too, it seems. More than I can say for some people."

Victor jerked his eyes up. He could see Larry reflected in the mirrored upper wall of the pub. Their eyes met through the reflection, and the other man's lips smiled wryly, knowing he was caught and being nonchalant about it. Victor turned his gaze back to Clint, who was looking at him as he took a pull from his bottle.

"So what should I do?" he asked nervously. 

Clint shrugged. "Depends," he answered. "If it's something you want to act on, ask him out. If you're interested in anything beyond friendship, then let him know. He's a grown man, he can take it."

Victor was silent, taking in Clint's words. Their dinner passed in relative quiet, save the background hubbub of the pub's patrons in the background. A small tinkle of cutlery hitting the floor drew his attention from his food. Larry had bent down to pick up a spoon that had fallen from the plates he was clearing from the table several spots to his right. 

He couldn't stop his eyes from resting momentarily on the bartender's rear and the long lines of his legs in the fitted trousers. The trousers were not too tight, skimming thighs that hint at a runner's lean muscles. He entertained a brief thought at having those legs wrapped around him and was surprised that he actually welcomed the idea.

Clint was watching him and snorted softly. "Just ask him out, already. It's like watching a very bad chick-flick."

"Yeah, Brokeback Mutant," Victor said, smile in spite the churning thoughts in his head.

Clint threw back his head as he laughed. "That's a good one," he noted with a smile. He turned and managed to catch Larry's attention--not difficult to do as his eyes have been trained on them. He motioned with his empty bottle and the bartender nodded in acknowledgment. 

Larry arrived a minute later with a bottle of Corona, and a bottle of whiskey. He placed the bottle on front of Clint and topped up Victor's glass. "On the house," he said.

"You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?" Victor asked.

"I doubt it would be quite so easy," Larry countered. "I know you can drink everyone here under the table." He nodded at Clint, adding, "No offense."

"None taken," Clint said with a small chuckle. "I know my limits."

"A wise man," Larry said sagaciously. He turned back towards the bar and noticed two new arrivals at the bar. "Duty calls, I'm afraid," he said, turning back to the two men. "Enjoy the rest of your meal." With that he pivoted and walked back towards the bar, smiling a greeting at the couple.

"Generous," Clint said, waving the bottle in front of Victor. "Could be worse," he quipped as he took a sip.

"That's what I'm worried about," was Victor's answer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on the Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome. Anyone care to guess what Victor and the rest are dealing with?

Victor grunted as he was slammed onto the ground. He batted at the limb trying to pin him down as he chambered up. His claws flayed a layer of skin and flesh but another limb managed to get past his guard and slammed him to the ground again on his back. The large beast pinning him onto the ground started to press his leg-like appendage on Victor's chest. Clawing the creature to shreds didn't seem to faze it one bit. It kept regenerating muscle and tissue as quickly as Victor's own healing factor. All this went through his mind even as his lungs start to burn with the need for air.

He heard the crackle of lightning and thunder detonating in the air; audible proof of Wanda's eldritch powers. A moment later the enormous weight from his chest was lifted. He flipped up onto his feet and saw the creature being hit by superspeed punches by Quicksilver. The silver-haired mutant zipped left and right, throwing punches and kicks as he harried the creature with his hit-and-run maneouver. 

"Pietro," Clint's voice came through their earpiece. "I'm firing a C-4 arrow now!"

As the arrow detonated at the creature's feet, Victor felt a momentary wash of heat before he found himself standing fifty metres away from where he was originally. Pietro was standing next to him, grinning. He gave Victor's shoulder a small slap and sped off, surveying the site.

The creature lay in the shallow crater caused by Clint's arrow. It now looked considerably damaged, and for the first time Victor took a good look. It was about eight feet tall and had a hunched posture similar to a gorilla but that was as far as the similarity went. It was four-legged, with the front legs resembling those of an elephant. The hind legs were those of a giant cat or lion. A carapace of hard shell covered it's back and the top of the head.

The disturbing love-child of a lion, an armadillo and an elephant was how Clint had described it earlier. Victor was inclined to agree.

"Guys, I've got an incoming from the left!" Rogue's voice came through the earpiece.

Victor turned, claws out and in a defensive stance. A dark blur was heading towards them at great speed and he saw as it drew near that it was a woman. She was flying. 

"Friend or foe?" Victor asked. "Clint, is she from SHIELD?"

"If she is, I don't know her," came the clipped reply. 

The unknown woman neared them and floated gently to the ground. Clint's whistle came through, appreciative of the view. Quicksilver's murmured "Oh" echoed Victor's thought. 

The woman was strikingly beautiful. Shoulder-length glossy black hair, pale alabaster skin and with a face that was both delicate and sharp-featured. She was attired almost like the Black Widow, in a black form-fitting outfit. As he walked nearer, he saw that the outfit was made of leather, and looked almost like armour if the metal bands and rivets were anything to go by. A pair of wakizashi were strapped to her thighs, and her forearms have several throwing knives strapped in their sheaths. She was tall, estimated around five-nine. 

Her cat-like eyes spared them a glance before dismissively turning towards the creature lying on the ground. 

Wanda, Rogue and Victor approached her, stopping when they were about ten metres away.

"Who are you?" Rogue asked.

The woman turned and smiled. It wasn't a particularly friendly one, almost vicious. "Not your foe. For today at least," she answered cryptically. Her accent was foreign, almost Spanish.

"Do you know what that is?" Wanda gestured to the creature lying nearby.

"It's a tarasque, only 2 months old if I guessed correctly," the woman answered airily. The her voice turned grim. "Vicious things. If it had reached full maturity, it would've been almost unstoppable. Lucky you."

"A what?" Victor asked, curious in spite of everything. 

"The tarasque is a myth," Wanda retorted. 

"And yet one lies at your feet," the woman replied blithely. "Do you mind? I have to take the carcass away."

"Why?" Rogue asked.

"Let's just say you are not quite alone in this world."

"Icould'vetoldyouthat," came the hurried answer from Quicksilver before he appeared standing next to Wanda.

"I wasn't referring to outer space aliens," came the woman's reply, dark with meaning. "Sometimes, the most horrifying things live right next door."

"What do you mean?" Rogue asked again, agitated.

The woman shook her head. "I've said too much as it is. I wish you people no ill, but I can't say more."

"Why not?" Rogue pressed, stepping closer. Victor could see her left hand was bare.

"Rogue, stop," came Wanda's command. She had seen the uncovered hand, too. She turned to the woman and asked gently. "You cannot say more, as in you don't know? or you have been denied the ability to say more?"

A small laugh bubbled up from the woman. She nodded respectfully at Wanda. "You're a smart one," she acknowledged. "The latter, I'm afraid." She levelled a pointed look at Rogue and her hand. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. All it'll do is transfer the geas to you."

"Geas?" Rogue queried. 

"A magical command," Wanda answered. "If my guess is right this geas is transferable through any mode of communication, isn't it?"

"Just so," the woman affirmed. 

Wanda's eyes narrowed as she snapped out, "That's a godlike level of power we're talking about! No human could craft that kind of magic."

A raised eyebrow and a small moue of amusement was the only reply to Wanda's statement. 

She dipped a hand into the bodice of her armour--Victor could see now that it was indeed armour--and withdrew a small crystal pendant. She held it in her hand towards Wanda. "I have a feeling you may need this sooner or later." She turned to Quicksilver and gave him a lewd wink. "And my name is Adria, handsome."

Pietro let out a squawk of surprise. "A telepath?"

"Something like that," she said with a throaty chuckle. "And I must say, I'm quite flattered by your imagination. And yes, you can pull my hair." The last was said with a salacious grin.

Wanda glared at her twin. "Pietro," she hissed. "Seriously?"

The woman--Adria--gestured towards the downed creature at a milky glow started to cocoon it. Once the tarasque was enveloped in the milky construct both the tarasque and the woman started levitating. 

She looked down at them as she floated up. "Be on your guard. They're brave enough to show themselves out in the open now. Call out to your allies and prepare them."

Wanda held up the crystal pendant. "What does this do?" she shouted her question

"It's a summoning crystal. Crush it and one of us will come to your aid!" Adria shouted down as her altitude increased. "I hope we meet again, in less dire situation."

The was a small imploding sensation, a rush of wind filling in the displacement and she was gone. 

Victor turned back towards the small crater caused by the C-4 arrow. He glanced at his hands and blood-streaked forearms. He looked up at the sky and took in a deep breath, certain ideas that had percolated at the rear now brought out into the light. He removed his gloves gingerly.

"Clint," he called out to the archer. "We need some of those evidence bags."

Rogue walked up to him, several large evidence bags in her grasp. He took one from her and dumped his gloves inside.

"You're onto something," Rogue noted.

"She let slip a few things," he answered as he motioned her to follow him. He hopped down the small crater, lending Rogue a hand as she chambered down behind him. He pointed to several pieces of charred flesh and Rogue pocketed them into another bag. "She said they are showing themselves in the open now."

"Meaning that there could have been previous run-ins that we don't know about," Rogue said, continuing the thread of logic. 

"We know of one more," Victor said with a small grin. 

Rogue gaped at him as his meaning sank in. "The bodies from the morgue!"

"Exactly," came Clint's voice through the earpiece. "You two were still on air."

"It's a solid angle," came Pietro's comment. "Sounds like a workable lead to me. Come on, you two. We can talk more in the Quinjet."

Victor helped Rogue up the small incline of the crater. "She said they're not aliens; and that little dig at Wanda on the human magic bit, implied they are not baseline humans," she mused out loud.

"And Henry already ruled out mutants and similar off-shoots," agreed Pietro. "Crystal sent an email a couple of days before that she had the Inhumans and Eternals genetic stock compared against the sample Henry supplied."

"Sersi confirmed that they're not Eternals," came Wanda's aside. She turned and nodded at Victor and Rogue as they entered the Quinjet. 

Once everyone is strapped in their seats, Clint engaged the engine and the aircraft started to lift and make its way back to the mansion.

Victor looked out the porthole as the aircraft sped along. The unasked question hung in the air. 

What are they dealing with?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gave Victor a pep-talk. 
> 
> Introducing new players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light smut. 
> 
> Comments are welcome.

He felt those lips on his. Firm and confident, slowly withdrawing. Teasing him. He chased after them. He could feel them curve with a small smile. His tongue flicked out, teasing in return and he was rewarded when those lips parted slightly. The other man's head tilted slightly, deepening the kiss and Victor could feel the stubble rub against his chin.

He moaned softly, most of it swallowed by the kiss. His hands moved from where they were gently cradling his lover's head down to the other man's arms. Lean muscles flexed briefly and those arms were now gently wrapped around him. Victor moved his hands around, travelling down to his lover's chest and went lower still. A small hum of appreciation invited those hands lower. 

His fingers fanned out on each side, mapping the lines of his lover's hips and continued their journey behind. He could feel the small indentations at the small of the other man's back, the rising swell of his ass. His hands went for the prize; cupping those tantalising mounds and kneading them while his mouth attacked the arched column of neck exposed now to him.

His lover gripped him hard, bringing his arms around in a desperate embrace. Gasps and moans in his ears told Victor that his lover will not last long. Neither could he ...

He woke up with a gasp. He was in his bed. Alone. The night's silence was broken by the soft hum of the small mini-bar off to his left. He looked down and saw his erection tenting the sheets. Engorged, throbbing, and harder than he could remember. Obscenely asking for release. The clock at his bedside read quarter past four. It was going to be another cold shower for him.

He moved up and out of the bed. The restlessness kept nagging at him. For the past couple of weeks he had the same erotic dream. Always he had started awake before he could see the face of his lover in those dreams ... but he had a feeling he knew whose face it would wear.

Larry.

After his conversation with Clint, he had attempted to flirt with the bartender but Larry was either playing coy on purpose, or he was just oblivious. It didn't help that the blonde waitress kept staring daggers at him. The other one, the redhead Vanessa seemed friendly enough although he could feel her protective vibe coming to the fore whenever he tried to engage Larry in conversation; always coming up with a well-placed diversion. 

One would wonder she had never worked a cash register before.

Victor grinned in spite of himself. He finished his shower and donned a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He grabbed a lightweight cotton jacket as he left his room. 

He padded quietly along the hallway, not wishing to disturb any of his fellows and descended down the stair of the mansion. A small chatter from his right grabbed his attention, coming from the common room. Victor walked softly towards the room and peered inside through the ajar door.

Steve was lounging on the sofa. A plate bearing the remains--from what Victor could surmised from the smell--of the roast turkey they had for dinner earlier. 

"Midnight snack, Rogers?" he asked with a small smile.

"High metabolism," Steven Rogers answered. He turned and raised an eyebrow at Victor and his attire. "Going out?"

"Yeah, I just felt restless. Thought maybe a walk might do me good."

"Ah," was Steve's only response. He tilted his head slightly. "You were thinking about him, were you?"

Victor bristled. Clint's got a big mouth. "Don't see how it's any of your business."

"My teammates' wellbeing is my business," Steve said, rising up from the sofa. He stepped towards Victor, his hands held up placatingly. "But I know that's neither here nor there. If you like the guy, just ask him out. Something non-threatening like a visit to the museum."

"Why a museum?" Victor asked, curious at the way the conversation was going. Captain America is giving him dating tips?

"Because if he is actually straight then it won't freak him out, as opposed to a romantic dinner," was Steve's answer. 

Victor leaned back, considering. He nodded. "Thanks. And sorry I was being a brat."

"Hey, no problem," Steve said, clapping Victor on the shoulder. Then he grabbed both of Victor's arms and looked directly into his eyes. "I know some of these things are new to you, Victor. But you are a changed man now. What you did before does not define the man you want to be. I think you deserve something good in your life."

Victor just stared. He had heard people joke about Steve Rogers and his seemingly rose-coloured philosophies. At that moment however, he wondered just how well do those people actually stop to think about what he said. He was humbled to realize that this man, this legend, was actually one of his advocates. 

Victor looked down at his feet, feeling like an adolescent as he asked hesitantly, "Know any good exhibitions?"

Steve chuckled, his voice warm. "Come on, join me for a run and I'll tell you."

 

* * *

 

The room was cold and silent. Adria Morgana d'Cruz glanced at her fellow occupants. To her right, Jorinda Abdullah-Williams seemed lost in reverie. The woman's wealth of burnished brown curls almost hiding her face as she played with the signet ring on her finger. The air of calm serenity that always cloaked her was an ever present aura. Adria wondered--not for the first time--if it was a glamour or the woman's natural charm.

Opposite Adria, Adam El Maliki was drumming his fingers on his thighs. The opposite of Jorinda, Adam was a man of action. He had started off with pacing through the length of the room and only Jory's sweetly laced request had made him return to his seat. He did not stop fidgeting, though.

"Are we waiting for anyone else?" Adam asked aloud.

It took a while for Adria before she realized the question was directed at her. "Just Christabel," she answered. 

As if on cue, the door to the room opened and Christabel Adare entered. Her pale blond hair was immaculately braided and twisted into a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her white blouse and cream-coloured slacks were spotless and perfectly creased, as always.

"You're all here. Good," she said without preamble. "I think we've found him," she stated.

Adam snorted. "You think?"

Jory laid a calming hand on his wrist. "Let her finish, Adam."

Chris spared a nod of thanks to the other woman before returning a quelling glare at Adam. "He managed to hide his presence for the last six years. We found a familiar energy trail two years back but it was too faint to trace or identify."

Adam leaned forward, the light reflecting off of his dark eyes. "What changed now?"

"An energy spike from twelve days ago, in one of Manhattan's burroughs."

Adam leaned back, deflated. "One of the most populated cities in the world. It's going to be pretty difficult to locate him."

"Not only that," Adria added, "We have other parties who may have a vested interest in him if any of this ever gets out."

"We can't let it then," Chris mused. She turned to Adria. "Any news of the opposition?"

"Three of their people tried to accost a rogue," she answered. "They did not survive the attempt. I couldn't make it in time before the police were crawling all over the site but I think it's him."

"How sure are you?" Jory asked, her green eyes intent.

"About ninety-percent. It has the usual earmarks of his energy manifestations."

"Burnt ozone, agitated wildlife and massive damage to buildings?" Adam asked, with a touch of dark humour. The three women's lips twisted in response to his sally.

"Buildings are fine," Adria waved her hand. " But we may have a small complication with trying to keep things under wraps."

"The public forays?" Jory asked. Adria nodded grimly. Jory nodded in defeat, a rare moment for someone as calm as her. "I've already informed the council that the barriers are failing."

"What did they say?" Chris asked.

"They cannot take any action yet," she answered, holding up a hand placatingly. "I have informed them of the tarasque and the need to have more people scouting for the escapees. They said that we may act as we see fit."

"Well," Chris said. "That's so something at least." She turned to Adam. "You'll need to get the rest of our people here."

"I'm on it," he said, standing up. "Do you need me for anything else?" 

"No, they'll manage for now," Jory said, standing up to join him. "I'll join you with the gathering. But first, I need you to take me to my mother."

Adam stood and left with Jory.

Adria raised an eyebrow. "You got rid of them in a hurry," she observed. 

"He's just so ... male," Chris shrugged dismissively. "And Jorinda wouldn't approve of the next idea I have."

"How so?"

"I thought we might want to have a chat about these 'Avengers' you encountered."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of what happened that night. Charlotte is a jerk. And the start of something ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thank thank you thank you!  
> Comments are always welcome

"Who is that in the background?" Victor asked. 

Larry covered the mouthpiece and turned to hiss "Be quiet!" at Ryan and Vanessa. The two of them were making kissing noises and humming 'Love is in the Air' behind him. Charlotte was conspicuous in her non-participance, a raised eyebrow her only response to the others' antics. It was Monday and they were just opening, the four of them setting up for business. 

"Just Vanessa and Ryan being asses," he said after sending a withering stare at them.

Victor's chuckle made his stomach flutter. Larry ducked behind the bar to put some semblance of distance from Vanessa and Ryan. "So," he continued, " just so we're clear ... you are asking me out. As in a date?"

"I thought it was obvious," came Victor's reply. 

"I thought you were straight," Larry blurted out, not being able to stop himself.

"So did I," Victor agreed. Larry could practically see the sheepish grin translated over the phone. "So ... ?"

Larry thought for a while. A part of him was hesitant. A sexy hunk of a man confused about his orientation? Early onset of some bizarre mid-life crisis?

Another part of him was chomping at the bit. Rugged, sexy and definite interest. The gravelly voice alone made certain parts of his anatomy clench. 

He made his decision. "Yes," he said finally. 

There was a small huff of air. And Larry could have sworn Victor muttered 'didn't think he'd go for it' before his voice came much more audibly, "Great. I'll swing by your place on Wednesday at eleven."

"Wednesday? Don't you have to work?"

"We don't follow the usual Mondays to Fridays around here." And there was that gravelly chuckle again.

"Well, who am I to deny myself the pleasure of your company then?"

"Reading Austen again?"

"I've switched to the Brontë sisters."

"Wuthering Heights?"

"Jane Eyre."

"Haven't read that one," Victor said after a small pause.

"It's darker than Austen. I remember some parts of it ..." Larry trailed off, disturbed by the newfound recollection. He shrugged mentally and changed tack. "Anyway, Wednesday at eleven. I'm at 111 Putnam Avenue, third floor."

There was a short silence, with a soft scratching noise in the background, before Victor's reply. "Got it. Third floor, 111 Putnam Avenue. I'll see you then."

"Unless you drop by for a drink," Larry returned playfully, his voice flirtatious. 

"Not likely," came the regretful reply. "I'm ... tied up."

"Ah," Larry noted. "Wednesday, then."

"Yeah. See you."

Larry ended the call and placed the phone back onto its cradle. He turned to see three pairs of eyes trained on him.

"He asked me out," he answered simply to the unasked question. 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow at that. "And you said yes," she made it a statement, her voice flat.

"Geez, Charlotte," Ryan commented drily. "Contain your excitement, will you?"

"He's going out with a complete stranger," Charlotte pointed out.

"That's how most dates start out, d'uh," was Ryan's flippant reply. 

"And it's not like he's a complete stranger," Vanessa agreed. "We have his name, industry he works in, his favourite drink and he's single."

"I'll ask him to fill out a credit report, if it makes you feel better," Larry snapped at Charlotte, rolling his eyes. It didn't escape his attention that the blonde was always chilly when the subject of Victor came up.

Charlotte didn't reply. All she did was glare at him before stalking off to the entrance to change the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open.'

Ryan just shrugged and returned to the kitchen. Vanessa glanced at Charlotte, then looked at Larry and shrugged. "You're not answerable to her," she murmured, walking off to get the serviettes from one of the wall cabinets. 

Larry just mirrored her shrug and went about with the rest of his day.

When Wednesday arrived, Larry practically hopped out of bed despite the fact that it being another sleepless night. He did his usual tidying up in the small apartment, making a pot of coffee after he was done. 

Half-past ten found him at his usual perch near the window, looking out. The sun was shining and not a cloud in the sky. The usual cars belonging to the residents in the area were parked at their usual spots. He had paid close attention to the going-ons around him after the three men's aborted attempt to kidnap him from two weeks ago.

Just the memory of the event brought stirrings of rage in him. When the three had moved, the did so with perfect synchronisation, as if born out of habit and practice. They had cornered him into the alley, circling around him like a cat with a mouse. Or, after he caught the glint of the faint streetlights reflected in their eyes like catshine, like lions and their prey. He remembered feeling both foolish and furious for thinking he was safe after three years of not being pursued.

He fainted to his left. The man on that side swiftly backed away, keeping the same distance between them. Larry did not need to look around to know the other two had moved forward to keep their ring constant. 

It was almost as if they were penning him, afraid to come in contact with him.

"What do you want?" he growled at them. 

They did not reply, only a guffaw from the one directly in front of him.

One of them said something in a language he did not understand, the words both clipped and lyrical.

 _Ilmara, ___his awakened consciousness supplied. _The first recorded mortal tongue. Lost when your kind removed yourselves from the world. ___

__The fury that had been welling inside him seemed to spark some unknown trigger inside him. He felt energised, as if the rage had fueled some hidden reserve of vitality within. He could feel his fingertips tingle as he felt it rush across his being. He could sense the power around him, united with the nascent stirring of his enhanced senses. Everything around him, inside him, has power. Power that is his to use._ _

__He rushed at the man in front of him. Taken by surprised, he whipped out his arms in a warding gesture and Larry could feel a faint surge that did not faze hus advance, but affected the various flotsam nearby from the clatter of debris. Grabbing for the nearest arm, he could see a spark sizzle from his outstretched hand jump to the man. The spark coalesced into a rushing blanket of crackling black fire that enveloped him._ _

__A small shriek of horror were cut off abruptly after the black fire completely engulfed him only to gather upon itself and flew back to Larry's open palm. The process had taken three seconds._ _

___Soulreaver, ___his consciousness whispered. _His powers are now yours. _____

____He whirled, feeling the tingle at his fingertips at the power roiling to be released. One of the other two was rooted to the ground, a look of horror and dawning recognition when his eyes and Larry's met. He started backing away, holding his hands out in supplication. Larry did not spare them. The black fire leapt almost hungrily from his hands towards, shrouding them in fires that gave no heat but deadly with its killing intent._ _ _ _

____When they had fallen lifeless, after the black fire had returned to him, swiftly seeping back into his skin leaving little tingles in their wake ... Larry woke up in his clothes on the living room floor of his apartment. He had no recollection of making his way home._ _ _ _

____He wrenched his thoughts back to the present, feeling the power build slowly. It came in slow, sure waves. Ebbing teasingly, letting him acclimatise in increments until it swelled into its crescendo. He could feel it roiling within, desiring to be released. Faint twinges of enhanced senses started to seep through his consciousness as his mind warred between holding on to his own being and wanting to explore the possibilities of the raw power he had glimpsed several times before._ _ _ _

____His senses had reached out beyond the limits of the small apartment, coursing along the walls of the building and expanding to the world without. Eddies of air currents, the fluttering pigeons' wings ... He could feel them all as if they were brushing against his skin. He playfully tested the threads of power he was connected to, experimenting with his reach._ _ _ _

____A gentle breeze started. Larry stopped, and so did the air became still once again._ _ _ _

____A nervous giggle bubbled out from him as he tried it again, placing more force ... and the breeze came again to slowly but surely picking in speed. When the rustle of the trees started to shed still green leaves Larry stopped._ _ _ _

____A small smile played on his lips. A feeling as familiar as it was welcome tingled across his skin ... he knew then without a doubt that he had always been able to do this. A shiver of excitement trailed along his spine._ _ _ _

____The arrival of a dark blue 1971 Ford Mustang caught his attention. The feel of that car was new to him, and definitely not belonging to any of the residents in the area. His expanded sense informed him that much, having seeped through the workings of the vehicle and found them new to his presence. The car slowed down when it drew close to his building and Larry took a moment to observe it coasted along until it stopped in front of his building._ _ _ _

____Larry smiled when he saw Victor getting out of the car. He had gotten a haircut. The lightweight camel coloured jacket could not hide how his T-shirt and jeans moulded themselves to his muscles. Victor looked up, and waved at him when their eyes met._ _ _ _

____He opened the window and yelled down at Victor, "I'll be right down!"_ _ _ _

____Victor nodded and leaned against the wall, waiting for Larry to come down. He smiled inwardly at himself, at the giddy feeling that had started in the morning. A fee moments later, the thudding of running feet came to his ears. Someone is eager, he noted._ _ _ _

____A small rush of feeling came over him, and it was only when he felt himself getting hard did he identify it as arousal. He frowned, tamping the feeling down. His jeans were tight enough as it is._ _ _ _

____The door opened and Larry walked out. He was dressed in a charcoal gray long-sleeved T-shirt, slim-cut khakis and and a forest green cardigan. He realized the other man tended to dress in earth tones and darker colours._ _ _ _

____"Ready to go?" Victor asked._ _ _ _

____"Lead on, good sir," came Larry's playful reply. "Where are we going?"_ _ _ _

____"Picnic at the park," Victor supplied. "Thought we can eat and talk without too many people around."_ _ _ _

____"Picnic? How bucolic," Larry commented with a small laugh. "It is a lovely day."_ _ _ _

____"Thought you might like it," Victor returned with a grin. He went ahead of Larry an opened the passenger door. "After you."_ _ _ _

____"And they say chivalry is dead," Larry noted approvingly._ _ _ _

____"Hey, you're worth it," was Victor's rejoinder._ _ _ _

____Larry ducked inside, hoping he managed to hide his blush at the other man's words._ _ _ _

____Victor did not miss it._ _ _ _


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on Larry and Victor. Appearances by Anna-marie, Clint and Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be on a roll, no?

"Well, this is different," Larry said, adjusting his helmet.

"Thought you might want to work up an appetite," Victor replied. 

Larry's eyebrows rose as he hoisted his gun. "I want lobster," he said with a vicious grin. 

It was their fourth date, sixteen days after the first one--not that Larry was counting. The picnic at the park was pleasant, where they shared information about themselves. 

Larry refrained from sharing details about his amnesia, or the various physical quirks about himself. He felt those details should not be shared that early. 

As far as Victor was concerned, Larry was a British national who had been living abroad for much of his life. 

Victor shared that he had been working with Clint for almost a year, being a new addition at the security firm they both work. He seemed at ease with being on a date with another man, playful with his banter. And the banked desire his eyes contained when he looked at Larry ... 

It sent a delicious shiver down Larry's spine. 

Their second date was a visit to the Museum of Modern Art. When Victor had told him, Larry had been surprised. While he tries not to pigeon-hole people, he admitted to himself that art was not something that Victor would have any deep appreciation beyond the surface aesthetics. 

He told Victor that later when Victor drive him home. Victor had given him a sidelong look.

"A friend thought I should broaden my horizons," he confessed with a smile. "He's been taking me out to all these galleries and art exhibitions."

"He sounds like an interesting man," Larry noted.

"Oh, he is," Victor agreed. "You'll probably like Steve. He's ... sweet," Victor finished hesitantly. 

"Why the pause? Is there something off about him?" Larry asked, catching on the hesitant note in Victor's description. Images of an autistic savant started parading in his mind before he quelled the uncharitable thought.

Victor laughed. "No," he assured Larry. "Exact opposite to be honest. He's built like a Greek god ... You'll have to meet him to understand."

"Intriguing," Larry commented. He could not help but feel anxious at the possibility of meeting Victor's friends.

Their third date was dinner at a Transian eatery. The cafe selling exotic delicacies from the small eastern European country had been recommended by another one of Victor's friends, who was of Romany heritage.

"Interesting friends you have," Larry noted when Victor told him.

Victor stilled and looked at him, he seemed to have tensed. His voice was even, however when he asked, "In what way?"

Larry counted off on his fingers. "Let me see," he started, "a transplanted gypsy. The paragon of physical perfection who loves art. Actually, this Steve, Clint and you seem built along the same lines ..."

"You think I'm a paragon of physical perfection?" Victor asked, interrupting him. His expression was skeptical. 

Larry stared at him. Was the man putting him on? "Victor, you have shoulders like boulders, six-six in height and look like you can bench press a Beetle."

Victor looked down for a moment, his ears turning red. However, when he looked back up his expression was pleased. "Thank you," he murmured. 

"You're welcome," Larry replied. 

"Better not let Clint hear you describing him like that though, he's insufferable enough as it is."

"Noted."

Today, the fourth date, was paintball. 

Larry had playfully commented to Victor during their phone call two nights ago that their last three dates had been all about enriching their palates and mind, how about something a bit more physical?

It was only when those words had left his mouth did he realised the risqué subtext they contained, and he almost wilted in horror when he realised his gaffe.

Victor's pregnant silence on the other line was not exactly helping.

"Interesting suggestion," Victor had replied. Larry could just imagine him grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Didn't know we're up to that point yet."

"Physical," Larry hissed. "Not sexual! Guttermind."

"Pity," had been Victor's response. His deep-throated chuckle was positively sinful.

"Oh for Pete's sakes, I'm mortified enough as it is!"

Victor laughed. "Okay, okay," he relented. "No more teasing. At least until we're face-to-face."

"You just like watching me blush."

"Don't pretend like you don't like it."

"I'm not. It's just ... I'm nervous," Larry admitted. He closed his eyes the moment he finished his sentence. 

"Larry," Victor said gently. "If anyone should be nervous, it's me. I've never been with a guy before."

"It's simple," Larry said with a huff. "Insert tumescence into orifice." He winced at those words. "Sorry," he apologised. "That was crass."

Victor huffed a small laugh. "Don't be. It's funny actually."

"You're just salivating in anticipation," Larry accused him playfully. 

"Can you blame me?" Victor asked him.

Larry smiled. The subtle compliment sent warmth down to the pit of his stomach. "As long as you don't blame me in return."

"Never," was Victor's whispered reply. 

There was an awkward silence at that. Victor cleared his throat and continued, "So, physical activity. Leave it with me."

And fast-forward two days later where Larry found himself and Victor at a paintball arena.

"When I said physical activity I was thinking more along the lines of hiking or kayaking," Larry murmured as he put on the protective gear.

"Paintball is an enriching physical activity," Victor pointed out baldly.

"More like hurting," Larry retorted with a smile. "But I'll confess that this is an unexpected surprise."

"Good one?"

Larry looked at the other man. He did not miss the slight frown on Victor's face, as if afraid Larry would be disappointed. He smiled warmly and squeezed Victor's hand affectionately. "It is," he said. He threw his hesitation away and gave Victor a small kiss on his cheek.

Victor's smile was like the sun coming up.

Larry gave his hand another squeezed and looked around. There was a slight pressure to acquit himself well today however, as three of Victor's colleagues had joined them.

Clint handled the paintball gun as if it was a sniper rifle. His movements when checking his gear hinted at the possibility of a military background. He was exchanging playful banter with the other man in the group, a perfect specimen of masculine beauty if there ever was one. 

Steven, the other man, was impressive in appearance--as Victor had described him, built like a Greek god--but what was singularly apparent was his old-world mannerisms. It's almost as if his speech patterns were tailored to an older era. Larry decided that it was not necessarily a bad thing, as he watched how he treated the woman who had joined them with gentle deference. 

Anna-marie was the quintessential Southern belle. The delightful twang of her accent, her huge green eyes and the white streak in her curly brown hair were the most obviously striking traits in her appearance. He liked the fact that she happened to be a bit of a tomboy. No shrinking violet, this one.

There was a momentary flash of recognition as he remembered another woman with curly brown hair and green eyes. Her face was serenely beautiful, like a Renaissance angel. 

He shook inwardly at the brief flash of memory. There were three faces that seemed to be embedded in his memory now. The angelic beauty, the darkly sensual woman with her sleek black hair, and his unknown lover with the pale skin and violet eyes.

He missed out on what Clint was saying, only realising it when he noticed that the four of them were looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry," he apologised quickly. "I was miles away. What were you saying?"

"There's five of us," Clint repeated. "You okay with it being a free-for-all?"

"Player versus player, eh?" Larry asked. "Bring it, Clint Eastwood."

Anna-marie snickered at Clint's new nickname. For his part, Clint did not look affronted. He smiled at Larry.

"We're no pushovers," Clint said, in friendly warning. 

"Good, it's annoying to play with bad sports," Larry returned. 

"Guess you play for keeps?" Anna-marie asked, bumping him with her shoulder.

Larry tilted his head quizzically, the very picture of confusion as he asked, "You mean there's a different way of playing?"

Steven laughed, clapping Victor on the back. "This one's a keeper, Victor."

Victor's eyes snapped to Larry, meeting his. "I thought so," was his slow reply, a lazy wink thrown in Larry's direction.

Larry smiled wryly, as Anna-marie, Steven and Clint hooted. He was sure that the four of them could see the blush on his face.

He hefted his paintball gun. "Shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint does some digging around. Charlotte tipped her hand.

Contrary to his line of work, Clint Barton was not predisposed towards snooping. However, after having spent so long undercover and performing intelligence gathering had lent him a certain sixth sense when things seemed ... fishy.

He stared at the meagre results of the last three days of intel he managed to gather and can only come up with one conclusion. 

Laurence Whitkins was not what he appeared to be.

No driver's license. No other records besides the passport details confirming him as British national. His paperwork was in order, surprisingly. Larry was not an illegal alien. The red flag was that there were nothing that went back beyond ten years. 

Ten years and the only results were a hospital record of him waking up from a coma in a hospital in Norfolk, Virginia and registration records for Hamilton College in Clinton, New York that he never attended due to being in a coma. The cause of the coma was unknown, as was how he ended up in Virginia. A savings account with Bank of America. 

With two hundred thousand and forty-two dollars, twenty-seven cents in the balance. 

The last deposit was made two months ago. He tried following the trail but it only told him that the last deposit of twenty thousand dollars had been done personally at one of BoA's branch in Malaysia. 

Clint ruminated on the past chain of events that led him to start digging on Larry's past.

It was the day of the paintball date. 

Steve, Rogue, Victor, Larry and him had agreed on a free-for-all. That in itself was not a huge thing. It was what had happened during the game.

Clint had picked out a high vantage point, acting the sniper. He had Larry in his sights, and the man had looked direct at him with a vicious smile, even as Clint pressed the trigger to his gun.

Larry had sidestepped it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

The paint pellets fired had struck the low wall--one of many structures strewn about the paintball arena when Larry moved. He had moved so fast that if Clint hadn't witnessed it he would have thought he had imagined it.

Only Steve and Pietro had that kind of reaction time ...

He got down from his perch and made a point of shadowing Larry. He started to pay an extremely close watch on his movements and behaviour. 

Except for a few differences, Larry moved like he was trained by the Mossad. His movements were fluid and graceful, but economical. He evaded attacks as if he had some extra-sensory abilities; letting him escape the trap Steve and Rogue had set when they had tried cornering him. His reply was a playful fire at Steve's ass.

Steve's yelp of surprise, and the blush that had accompanied it was priceless. 

He shot Victor in the foot. He even nailed Clint on his back.

And throughout it all, he remained unscathed.

"Maybe paintball wasn't such a good idea," Rogue had remarked as she rubbed gingerly at the small bruise on her upper arm.

Victor smiled ruefully at Larry. "That was uncanny, watching you."

"Were you in the army?" Clint had asked, conversationally. His eyes however were sharp, focused on Larry's face.

There was a momentary hesitation, so brief that it could be missed if Clint had not been looking for it. Larry's lips had twisted in dark humour as he replied, "I wouldn't know."

Rogue's eyebrows rose.

"I was in a coma, about fifteen years ago. I woke up and I couldn't remember much before that," he explained.

The awkward silence was broken up by Steve, who suggested lunch at a shwarma joint Tony had recommended in the past.

Clint brought his mind back to the present. He continued looking at the data he had collected. Disjointed pieces and large holes in the picture. There was another way to gather information he decided. Pot O'Gold was going to have a new dedicated patron for the next few days.

That was how he found himself at the pub on Wednesday. It was Larry's day off, and going by Victor's absence at the mansion he would venture that they were out together. Their fifth date.

He was seated at a table in the back, keeping an eye on the icily beautiful blonde waitress. She was the same one that had given them a chilly reception when Clint had first joined Victor for a drink. The redhead Vanessa and her seemed to have a cool but aloof working relationship. Vanessa was ensconced behind the bar, filling in for Larry on his day off.

Good, Clint decided. That means she won't be distracting him from his objective tonight. 

He caught the blonde's eye and wave his bottle, signalling for another. She nodded and went to the bar, coming over to place the new bottle on his table a minute later.

"What do you recommend for food around here?" he asked her.

"The grilled salmon or the Ulster fry would be the best bet," she recommended. She raised an eyebrow, smiling as she continued, "Unless you want to try the Dublin Lawyer?"

His eyebrows rose. "That sounds interesting," he replied. "What is it?"

"Lobster cooked in whiskey and cream," she answered. 

Clint let her see his shudder. "I think I'll go with the Ulster fry," he decided. "It's something like an English breakfast, right?"

She nodded, jotting his order in her booklet. "That's correct," she confirmed. "Anything else?" she paused as she levelled a look. "Will your friend be joining you later?"

"Victor?" Clint asked. "Nah. It's just me tonight."

Her lips quirked in a small smile.

Clint felt his hackles rise slightly. "We're not joined at the hip," he returned, a slight edge to his voice.

The blonde retreated graciously, her expression thoughtful as she murmured, " Of course not." She made to move away, saying "I'll be back shortly with your order."

Clint nodded. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being outmanoeuvred. It was not a comfortable feeling. The blonde seemed to be toying with him.

She returned shortly, placing his order at the table. "I'm on my break," she announced. "If you don't mind the company, that is."

"Sure," Clint motioned to the seat in front of him. "Be my guest."

"I'm Charlotte," she introduced herself. She sat, leaning against the back as she crossed her legs. The pencil skirt had a slit that showcased the long lines of her legs. She gave him a small smile when she caught him looking.

"You've been boring holes with your eyes ever since you sat here," she said softly. "While I would like to say it was up to my looks, something tells me that's not the case."

Clint let the silence drag out several minutes, making a performance of cutting his bacon into little pieces. "That's ... an interesting theory," smiled at her, bringing up a fork full of bacon to his mouth. He savoured the taste as he chewed. He should get this one to go, he decided. 

He allowed the silence play out as he chewed. Natasha had told him once that silence made most people uncomfortable. She was correct, when the blonde fell into the gambit.

"You're not the first person to come sniffing around here," she supplied, a slight sneer on her face.

Clint chuckled. "You don't seem to have much confidence in your appearance," he drawled. "And you're lumping the redhead friend of yours along with you."

"Just facts," she shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the veiled riposte. "I've seen people get drawn to him without them realizing it. I'm not sure if he even realized it himself."

Clint just looked at her as he busied himself with his food. 

"It's like moths to a flame," she continued. "He'll have his fill and then move on."

"He's been going out with my friend for over three weeks already," he pointed out. "It doesn't look like it's flagging anytime soon."

Charlotte threw her head back and laughed. "Oh my," she said with a grin. It was not an especially pleasant grin. "I was talking about you."

Clint sat back, shocked. "I'm not even gay!" he protested. 

She smirked at him. "That's what they all say," she said, the faint warning obvious. "However it happened, something about him just gets to you. And you'll keep scratching against that hard shell he's layered himself with until ... "

"Until what?" Clint returned, "until I found here was nothing underneath the shell?"

"No," she said, rising up. "You might find something inside. Something that appeals to you. Something terrible. By then, you won't care."

"Why not?"

"Because by that time, you'll be way in over your head and the only way to go forward is to keep swimming in the depths."

Clint just stared at her as she walked away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Larry get frisky. The Avengers have a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter this time. Enjoy!

They were heading out for dinner, this being their seventh date. Larry had made a comment of missing Mediterranean food and Victor had suggested a place on Grand Street.

“It leans more towards Middle Eastern, if you’re okay with that,” he had mentioned.

“Even better,” Larry commented. “I remember having tasted a lot of Middle Eastern dishes, but I can’t actually pinpoint what those are, exactly.” He shot Victor a mildly exasperated look. “It’s annoying; not knowing the full details.”

“Well, maybe some hummus and falafel might jog your memory.”

“Maybe,” had been Larry’s reply.

Larry smiled up at Victor. He felt for the moment removed from the constant nagging feeling that he was being cornered. The event of the other night where he ended up killing the three men hung over him like a spectre. Victor walked by his side, his longer legs catching up effortlessly with Larry’s fast stride.

“Slow down,” Victor murmured, putting out his left hand. It happened to clasp Larry’s right hand on the upswing. Victor didn’t let go. He just looked at their hands, a bemused smile on his lips.

“Felt weird?” Larry asked.

Victor grinned. “Different,” he corrected the other man, bumping his shoulder companionably. He did not release his hand. “I’m not complaining,” he said, bringing up their joined hands and waving in to and fro in front of Larry. “Are you?”

“Should I?” Larry asked rhetorically. He smiled. “Viking warrior lookalike as my date, I should feel chuffed.”

“You should,” Victor agreed.

“And he’s humble, too,” Larry retorted playfully.

“Nah, not one of my many sterling qualities,” Victor replied, getting into the playful banter.

“That many, eh?” Larry asked. “Care to share?”

“Don’t want to discover it on your own?” Victor asked, giving him a slow wink.

Larry hummed. “If I didn’t know any better, that’s headed for the gutters,” he commented, and eyebrow cocked.

“You have a dirty mind,” Victor noted. His eyes, had become hooded, the slow curl of desire banked behind his amber eyes.

Larry leaned close to his ear, his lips a breath away as he murmured, “You have no idea.”

“Tease,” was Victor’s rumbled reply as Larry walked ahead. The small huff of his breath hitched slightly as he took in Larry’s back, his eyes moving down the rangy frame until it rested on the taut muscles of his ass—highlighted by the slim-cut khakis.

He started imagining those ass, that rangy build actually without a stitch on. Laid on the bed, his long legs wrapped around Victor as he slid himself—hard as steel—into Larry’s welcoming core. He felt himself getting hard. Damn it. 

Larry had stopped and turned to look at him. Victor schooled his face into some semblance of decency, hoping that his grin was not too feral. If Larry had noticed anything amiss, he did not let on.

Dinner went on without any hitch. Victor was fascinated by Larry’s table manners; the man might be a bartender but his handling of the utensils and how he comported himself while eating was nothing short of graceful. It was as if he was used to dining at the best. 

He started paying closer attention to the younger man. Which is difficult, especially when Larry had suggested coffee at his place after dinner.

Various scenarios started preying on his imagination …

One: he was bending Larry over the table. Their pants were pooled around their ankles, shirts rucked up their torso. He was thrusting in and out of Larry’s tight heat. Larry’s moans of appreciation and grunts just egged him on. He leaned across the other man’s back, nipping at the back of his neck. Larry threw his head back, leaning into the rough nips and hungry kisses, turning his head to capture Victor’s mouth in a hungry kiss. He backed himself into Victor’s thrusts, the other man’s balls slapping deliciously against his perineum. 

Victor swallowed the rumble in his throat. He adjusted himself in his seat, thumbs brushing against the throbbing erection along his thighs.

Two: the evening would play out like a romantic movie. Not that he was averse to continued courting but for crying out loud! A man can only stand blue-balls for so long. He could whip up breakfast for Larry in the morning. If he is staying the night.

Victor smiled inwardly at the idea. What would Larry look like when he just woke up? Would he still have that intense, direct gaze?

Victor paid for their dinner, waving away Larry’s mild protestations. “You covered the last two dates,” he pointed out.

“Fair point, I suppose,” Larry agreed.

Victor wrapped an arm around Larry as they exited and drew him close. “Besides,” he said with a small smile, “You owe me a good cup of coffee.”

Larry smiled contentedly, worming into Victor’s side. The man leaked heat like a radiator, keeping the nippy night at bay. When they reached the apartment where Larry lived, they took to the stairs to the third floor. “Sorry it’s a bit Spartan,” Larry said as he unlocked the door to his apartment.

“I doubt it’s as bad as you make it out to be,” Victor murmured, his breath ghosting against the back of Larry’s neck.

Larry smiled. He did not miss the way Victor had become more … ardent, as the evening had gone further. His eyes still held that banked desire, his pupils enlarged as he gazed at Larry across the table. A small tinge of apprehension wormed itself in his mind; were things going too fast? Or too slow? They have been on seven dates already, and the hand-holding, as well as the snuggled walk back from the dinner today had been the first intimate physical contact between them.

Larry had been shocked when Victor grabbed his hand earlier. His first instinct was to wrench his hand away, the memory of the night of the failed attack fresh in his mind. But no black fire had leapt from his fingers and Victor remained hale and hearty.

He opened the door and ushered the bigger man inside.

Victor looked around, managing to school his face not to betray his slight surprise. Larry was not exaggerating. With the exception of essential furnishings—a sofa, an armchair, the breakfast table at its tiny nook—the only items signalling the presence of an occupant in the small apartment were a collection of books stacked on the seat at bay window. No television, or even a radio.

“You weren’t kidding,” Victor agreed, shrugging the fact as if they were of no great import.

“I’m rarely at home anyway, so getting a TV or radio seemed unnecessary,” Larry explained.

“Makes sense,” Victor agreed. He slowly made his way to Larry until he was standing directly in front of the other man.

Larry’s dark eyes looked up at him, a head shorter than him. There was a quick flicker of conflicting emotions flashing across his face; the spike of desire from his hitched breathing, the small tightening of the corners of his eyes, the vulnerability behind the naked longing and parted lips. Victor remained still, understanding that despite his unexplained but undeniable attraction to the man, the time for the chase has ended. Now it was his quarry’s time to surrender to the desire that had drove Victor on.

Larry’s hands rose and landed palms against Victor’s massive chest. The hands slid up, the edges brushing against the flannel-covered nipples. Larry’s small smile at Victor’s rumble was shy but pleased. The hands went to the back of his neck, fingers lacing themselves and pulled Victor gently down to him. Victor leaned down, a hand below Larry’s chin tipping his head upward to meet his.

Their lips met. The kiss soft and gentle. Like fluttering butterflies, their lips danced in teasing, catching, meeting and drawing away again and again. Larry’s fingers had tightened behind his head, while Victor’s were holding is waist, grip solid and steady. One of the bigger man’s wandered to Larry’s back, slowly rising to his back as he leaned forward to deepen the kiss.

His thumb stroke the side of Larry’s neck and was surprised when Larry’s body relaxed against him, a small moan escaping from his parted lips. Victor drew back slightly, watching Larry who had angled his face to rub his right cheek against Victor’s palm that was cradling the juncture of his neck and skull. He gave a small smile and ducked his head down towards Larry’s neck, nuzzling against the long neck, his stubble rubbing against the soft skin.

“Victor …!” came Larry’s strangled gasp. His fingers tightened their grip in Victor’s hair, pressing his face deeper into the crook of his neck.

“You like that?” Victor asked, murmuring in his ear.

Larry drew back slightly. “I guess you don’t want coffee?” he asked teasingly, his voice raspy and breathless.

“Fuck coffee,” Victor growl, grabbing Larry and kissing him again.

 

* * *

 

Jorinda looked up at the mansion. It housed one of the world’s premier superhuman teams dedicated to combating wrongs, if she remembered correctly. 

She stood in front of the cast-iron gate, peering into the compound with the air of a sight-seer. The burnished copper plaque facing her threw her reflection back at her: a woman with curly brown hair and liquid green eyes dominating a heart-shaped face with a Cupid’s bow mouth and dewy complexion. Her clothing was slightly bohemian; an asymmetrical calf-length skirt dyed in shades of aqua topped by a thick loose linen blouse in buttery cream. She especially remembered seeing a picture of them on the cover of a magazine two months ago. Captain America had in particular drew her eye. He had appeared to her a very warm and open man. She admired the broad sweep of his shoulders, but paid closer attention to the man’s guileless sky-blue eyes. Yet, she did not allow that appearance of naïveté to cloud her judgment.

Captain America was a man who had survived countless battles and still emerged victorious. She had searched for any news telecast or interviews and was left with the impression of the man’s beautiful voice. It was a voice made to pledge vows of undying love. A voice that despite its gentleness could command a god. And does. 

A spellweaver witch might not present much of a challenge.

She chided herself for the defeatist thought and took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell. Her mind was already cataloguing the spells she had prepared for the day—calling to the fore five battle spells, but preceding them with several spells of charming and persuasion. She was willing to use gentle diplomacy, but will not shirk to tip the scales in her favour should her audience be recalcitrant.

While she waited for someone to answer the bell, there was a little tingle at her breast. Jorinda brought her fingers to the necklace she wore around her neck. She ignored the two diamonds that functioned as spell-storing gems, nor did she pay attention to the pearl centre stone lying at the hollow of her throat—capable of absorbing any necromantic magics targeted at her. No, her fingers found the moonstone pendant she had had a jeweller add to the necklace seven years ago.

The moonstone had been charged by the essence of a shadow fey. Tuned to his life-force, it enabled her to track any energy discharges twinned to the fey’s life force. She had dedicated the past seven years trying to locate her missing friend and it would seem her search was coming to an end.

Concentrating, she could tell the energy reading was residual in nature, as if the owner was just passing through but made a short stop. She could tell the energy reading would be stronger in the mansion. Elated, Jorinda knew she had made the right choice.

She had not left the last meeting with Adam, Christabel and Adria a fool. A singing crystal charged with a clairaudience spell had allowed her to eavesdrop on the powerful telepath and her right-hand woman. Not for the first time she gave thanks to her natural immunity to psychic intrusion. Spellweavers are blessed with some aspects of psychic power that allow them to mould the aether and the natural world into fantastic spell effects, but she knew she would not want to pitch that immunity against the power of the blonde mentalist any time soon.

She was deep in her little reverie that she did not noticed someone had answered the bell and was already in front of her until the sound of a throat clearing jarred her to attention … and into a pair of eyes the colour of clearest summer sky.

Steven Rogers had noticed the woman hanging in front of the gate, peering in roughly about fifteen minutes ago. He had just returned from his evening run and had entered the mansion from the side door. On the way to the kitchen to slake his thirst, he had caught sight of the woman standing at the gate. He had at first dismissed her as being another tourist—New Yorkers had become blasé about the Avengers that they were pretty much left alone. Jen’s wild nights of partying do occasionally draw interest from the tabloids but they were largely left alone. Not even the addition of Sabretooth seemed to faze the populace now—what with the past histories of Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, and Vance to name a few—they seemed to be accepting Victor’s conversion as a matter of course.

Something about the woman seemed to call to him. Maybe it was the patterned aqua skirt, a bright splash of colour evoking sunshine on the waters of the Pacific. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Her curly brown hair was loose, ruffling in the breeze and lending a romantic air to her bearing. She had lifted her hand to press the doorbell and the old-fashioned chime reverberated across the expansive foyer of the mansion. 

He did not realize he had walked out of the front door to meet her until he was in front of her, with only the grille of the wrought iron gate dividing them.

She had her head bowed slightly, her fingers toying with a small pendant—moonstone, he guessed from the silver-pearl luster of the gem. A soft breeze had ruffled those curls again, and this time it brought to Steven the faint scent of lily-of-the-valley. He cleared his throat, and she looked up with her large green eyes—the golden flecks in them like sunshine filtered through the forest. Her face was angelic and uncomplicated in its fresh-faced mien. It was a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting, or in fairy-tales. The artist in him wondered briefly if he should ask her to sit for a painting. 

“Excuse me,” he began. “Were you the one who rang the bell?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I need your help in locating a missing person, Captain Rogers.”

Steven smiled, intrigued by her cultured accent. He schooled his expression into a conciliatory one, trying to let her down gently. She was probably from out of town, her accent being that of a New Englander. “You might want to go to the police for that, miss.”

“They cannot help, not with this missing person,” she pressed, coming nearer to the gate.

“Why do you say that?”

“It is quite complicated to explain whilst I am standing outside your gate, captain,” she pointed out, the gentle rebuke softened by a gentle smile.

“I am not sure if I should,” he began.

“Good heavens, captain,” she riposted. “You are the Avengers. I doubt that there is much danger that I could pose to you!”

“I was actually thinking about your well-being, miss,” he muttered, blushing slightly.

Jorinda raised her eyebrows. _He_ was worried for her? She could grow to be quite fond of this man, she decided.

“I doubt that you or your companions somehow have planned grievous designs upon my person,” she retorted archly, a tiny moue of amusement on her lips.

Steven sighed, she had a point. He relented, opening the small side gate and motioning for her to walk through.

Jorinda moved to walk through the gate, but paused slightly. She tuned to her mage-sense, feeling a slight resistance in the air across the gate’s opening. She made a small gesture, hidden from Steven’s eyes, her spell layering upon the existing ward and suppressing it and crossed over through the gate. The sensation was as if she was walking against a stiff breeze. The sensation flowed over her, harmless. Whoever it was that had placed that ward of forbiddance had clearly not accounted for a spellweaver’s spell resistance.

“Not bad,” she remarked, spying the smoky topaz embedded in the mortar. “Formidable woman, whoever she was that placed the ward.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologized, chagrined at being found out. “I was trying to be sure you were not a threat.”

“Apology accepted,” she said. She smiled kindly, laying a gentle hand on his. “I would have done the same, had our positions been reversed. Have I passed your test?”

“You’re a sorcerer?”

“A witch,” she corrected him promptly.

“Is there a difference?”

“Quite,” she nodded. “If we have time, I will explain but that topic is not quite germane to why I am here.” She gave him a considering look before continuing, “I could enhance the spell before I go.”

Steven waved her offer. “That’s not really necessary,” he declined. “Didn’t really work against you after all.”

Her laughter was charming as she shot him an amused look. “I am naturally resistant to most magics,” she explained. “So are most of my people. I assure you, a lesser person would have been held immobile by the enchantment.”

“That sounds … powerful,” he managed to utter. He looked at her askance. “Aren’t you worried sharing that information to a stranger?”

“And who are you going to tell, Captain Rogers?” she asked, teasing him. “Stephen Strange?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him,” she corrected with a smile. “To address your worry, no, my abilities are common among our people.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “I think we can dispense with the formality. Just call me Steve.”

“Jorinda,” she introduced herself. “But most just call me Jory.”

“Jorinda, like the fairy-tale?” Steven asked.

She smiled, a faint flush of pleasure colouring her cheeks. “The man has read Hans Christian Andersen,” she noted. “Interesting.”

Steve smiled. “I do read, you know,” he pointed out with a small pout.

“Of course,” she said, brushing his arm again in apology. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“So, this missing person,” Steven asked, harking back to Jorinda’s earlier conversation points. “Is he in danger? I’m asking because there must be a reason you seek us out.”

A small frown appeared on Jorinda’s smooth brow. “More like he is the danger,” she answered with a small sigh. “If left unchecked, he could destroy the city.”

“He’s a bad guy?”

“No, something far worse,” was the woman’s soft reply. She tilted her head, lost in thought for a moment. “I should not say that,” she corrected herself. “Let’s just say he had lost his way.” The last part was said with a certain amount of wistful sadness.

“Is he a … close friend?” Steven asked haltingly.

“An old friend,” she answered. “People talk about us as ‘the greatest love story that never was’ if you can believe it.”

Steve had been looking down at her, towering over her in his six-two frame. Something about her curvy build reminds him of Jane Foster’s assistant Darcy, but that was where the similarity ends. Unlike Darcy who seemed formed of air and lightning, Jorinda was earth and water: calm and serene. Her lips were a soft pink, and standing this close to her he could say confidently that she was not wearing any make-up. The rosy, peaches-and-cream complexion was all hers.

“I don’t know about him,” Steven said, the words coming up unbidden to his lips. There was a slight pause. “But I’m not surprised,” he murmured, his breath teasing the curls at her brow.

She looked up at him, pleased surprise in her eyes, and Steven couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and whispered in her left ear, “If I am your guy, I’ll cross oceans of fire for you.”

She laid a palm against his right cheek, rising on her toes to give him a chaste peck on the left. “If you were mine, I’ll fly you over them,” she said, wonderingly.

A movement from the open doorway of the mansion caught their attention. The moment was broken.

Rogue was standing at the door, surprised to see Steven conversing with the woman. “Clint is asking if you’re joining us for dinner, or if you’re going out?”

“Coming,” Steven answered. He turned to Jorinda. “Will you join us? You can tell me about this missing person afterwards.”

“I’d be delighted.”

Rogue and Clint had watched Jorinda throughout dinner. If the woman was displeased at their close scrutiny, she hid it well. They weren’t rude, but the level, considering look on both their faces were slightly irritating to Steven.

Jorinda laid her utensils down, wiping her lips daintily with her napkin and smiled at Clint. “My compliments, the halibut was masterfully done,” she commented.

“She’s right, Clint,” Rogue agreed. “I’m not usually a fish person but that was good.”

Clint smiled, his face flushed with pleasure at the compliment. 

Rogue had turned back to Jorinda. “You’ll have to forgive me for staring, but it’s not like we get to meet any of Steve’s girlfriend often.”

Steven could feel his face burning. “Oh, no!” he blurted out. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Jorinda agreed with him, smiling. “Perhaps in a different life?”

Rogue laughed. “I swear, there is something familiar about you,” she noted. “I can’t seem to put my finger on it though.”

“Have you ever been to Auburn, up in Maine?” Jorinda asked. “That’s where I grew up.”

“No, I haven’t been there,” Rogue answered. “Never mind, it’ll come to me in time.”

“Of course,” Jorinda allowed. 

Steven had noticed Clint’s subtle nudge of the head that the other man wanted to speak to him. Under the pretext of clearing the dishes, he joined Clint in the kitchen.

“What’s her story?” Clint asked without preamble.

“Missing person,” Steve answered easily. He held up a hand at Clint’s disbelieving look. “Not the usual kind, Clint. This missing friend of hers seem to be a danger to people around him.”

“Superhuman?”

“You can say that. More like magical.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. “Fuck, Steve,” he grunted. “You know magic can get real complicated.”

“I know. But something tells me Jorinda’s on the level. She doesn’t seem to have a reason to lie to us.”

“How can you tell?”

“She could have entered the mansion uninvited and we wouldn’t know, for one.”

“That’s impossible!” Clint sputtered. “That warding was the strongest that Agatha Harkness knew and she’s no pushover.”

“Clint, she suppressed the alarm component of the spell and stepped through the warding as if it was air. Not even Loki could pass through the warding undetected, not without tripping the alarm.”

“Shit,” Clint breathed out. “And you invited a sorcerer more powerful than Loki to dinner? Are you bonkers?”

“Clint, you know I love you like a brother and all but look at it from this context. She did not abuse her power by entering uninvited. She did not display any hostile intentions. And as for letting people with questionable agendas or history in … you, Natasha, Wanda and Pietro should be the last people to throw that kind of aspersions.”

Clint was quiet, slowly digesting Steven’s words. “That’s a low blow, Steve,” Clint said.

“I know, but you do see where I’m coming from?”

“All right. I’ll play along. I know Rogue will, too.”

“Shall we go back to the ladies then?”

“Yeah, might as well. They’re probably painting each other’s toenails by now.”

Jorinda and Rogue were deep in conversation when they returned to the dining room. 

Steve leaned back in his chair and motioned to Jorinda. “Tell us more about this missing friend of yours,” Steve asked.

“Before I do that,” Jorinda answered. “I need to do a sweep through the place. I don’t need to be in the actual rooms, I just need to re-trace the energy readings I’m getting.”

“No one’s been here,” Rogue pointed out.

“You wouldn’t know if he had,” Jorinda replied. “He can make you see and feel whatever he wants you to.” She turned to Steve. “He can cross that warding, break it, rebuild it and no one would be able to tell the difference.”

“And you can?” Clint asked, sceptical.

“Not on my own, no,” she answered honestly. “But if given suitable warning, or preparation, I can.”

“How?” Steve asked.

Jorinda drew out the small moonstone pendant hanging from her necklace. “The moonstone was charged with his life-essence. It will be able to detect manifestations of his energy signature, no matter how faint. And I am immune to psychic intrusions.”

Clint looked at the pendant askance. “If he is so powerful, then why did he allow that little detector in your hands?”

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled sadly. “If you really think about it, you’ll realize you have just answered your own question.”

“A failsafe,” Rogue ventured.

“A contingency,” Jorinda affirmed. “Against him, should one day he stray from the light.”

Steve rose to his feet. “What do you need?”

“I need to check if he has been here, and what is he looking for,” Jorinda said, rising to her feet. The fingers of her right hand were touching the moonstone pendant, her face taking on an abstracted air as if she had already attuned her senses to the moonstone. “It is quite a strong energy spike that I am reading; concentrated on this level and below.”

“The lab and the hangar is down there,” Rogue volunteered.

“If you could show me the lab? I think we can ignore the hangar for the moment. There is nothing there that might interest him. The laboratory on another hand …”

“Why wouldn’t he be interested in the hangar?” Clint asked, curious in spite of himself.

“He can cross dimensions. Space and distance means nothing to him. One of the rare few among our kind who can do so by force of will, instead of depending on external resources.”

“I’m beginning to see now why you want this friend found,” Rogue commented.

Steve led the way to the lab. He turned to Jorinda and asked, “What kind of field would this friend be interested in?”

She looked up from the moonstone. “Life sciences, usually. Biology, botany and such.”

“I suspected as much,” Steven said wryly. “I think we can leave Tony’s workshop alone then. The bio-sciences are this way.”

They moved to follow his lead, advancing several feet until Jorinda’s urgent pull at his hand stopped him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She pointed to a door in a recessed alcove. “What is in there?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “It’s forensics.”

She moved towards the door, unhearing and pushed it open. A low, wide steel table sat in the middle of the room. The table had little runnels down the surface, with a small drain at the bottom. It was a dissection table, usually used for post-mortem investigations. The moonstone in her hand practically throbbed.

“Jory?” Steve had called out. It took her several moments to realize that he had been calling her name at least twice more before.

“Was there a post-mortem performed here before?” she asked.

Steve, Clint and Rogue exchanged glances. At Clint’s and Steve’s nod, Rogue volunteered, “Two weeks ago, we helped perform an autopsy. Three men, found dead. They requested our assistance because they weren’t humans.”

Jorinda sagged against the table. “Of course,” she nodded. “Are the bodies still here?” 

Clint shook his head. “We had them returned to the morgue.” He paused. “We do have photos if you want to identify any of them, if it helps.”

“Jory, it’s not very pretty,” Rogue cautioned.

Jorinda laughed a brittle laugh. “Dead bodies usually aren’t,” she replied. “I have seen them before.” She turned towards Clint. “If I may see them, and the reports as well?”

Clint moved to one of the wall panels and a small keyboard extended from a hidden console. He typed in a few commands and a screen on the wall to their left flickered to life.

Nine photos were displayed for the three men. Two were profiles, left and right. One for full front shot. She noted the horn-like protuberance of one of them, a pech. The aquiline bone structures of one marking him as aeriad. The third one doesn’t have any distinguishing physical earmarks, so would venture a guess that he was a spellweaver as they resemble humans the most.

She skimmed through most of the post-mortem transcripts. She nodded at the notation made by the examiner on the aeriad’s hollow bones and elongated spine—she was right then. She rushed through to the cause of death. Cardiac arrest. Lungs flash-frozen almost immediately after. She closed her eyes.

A gentle clasp on her shoulder turned her away from the screen. “Any of them your friend?” Steve asked softly.

She shook her head as she took a deep shuddering breath. “He’s the one that killed them.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, sex, sex ... and plenty of revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll! Don't ask me why I am churning smut-laden chapters like 10,000 monkeys on speed on 10,000 typewriters.

"Oh God yes!" Larry yelled as Victor’s thick cock pushed into his ass again and again. He gasped as he felt the short pubic hairs against his ass-cheeks, a sign that Victor was in to the hilt. His dick made wet sounds at it pushed over and over into Larry’s worked ass.

They had been fucking for hours. Larry had cum twice already—once, from Victor’s thick nine-incher, another from sinking his cock slowly inside Victor’s tight virgin hole—and was well on his way for a third. Victor had come twice from fucking, and being fucked, and was on the stamina run of a lifetime. So there Larry lay on his stomach on the bed, face down as the bigger man slowly fucked him with his enormous skills.

Larry changed position, rising up so that he was kneeling with Victor still fucking from behind. Victor reached around the dark-haired man, rubbing his sweat-slick chest. Larry moaned and drove backwards, meeting Victor’s hips on each thrust. He kissed and sucked the back of Larry’s neck and shoulders. The feel of his burning lips was soft, and loving. His strong, sweat-covered hairy chest rested on Larry’s back, even as one hand reached around and rubbed at his stomach and chest. The other hand was on his right hip, guiding the fuck. He licked Larry’s left ear, teasing. He moved down and rained sultry kisses on Larry’s back. Each kiss timed perfectly with his thrust into the other man, driving him on towards the edge.

"You like that?" Victor asked, his breathing heavy. His tone lusty.

"Give it to me," Larry moaned, and impaling himself faster on the thick cock. He grabbed his dick and screamed that he was cumming.

"Me too" Victor gasped, and drove into Larry harder and faster. He gasped and moaned, hips juddering and warmth blossomed within Larry. His own jizz shot up high, hitting his chest and stomach, and Victor’s hand that was on them. The tight squeezing of his ass caused Victor’s orgasm to extend itself, eliciting gasps and mewls of contentment from the bigger man until at last they both lay on the bed together. Victor slid out of Larry, and turned the other man to his side and embraced him from behind.

“Didn’t peg you for a cuddler,” Larry murmured, his voice slurry in his post-coital haze.

“You bring out the best in me,” came Victor’s throaty reply. A small peck from his lips landed on the back of Larry’s neck. “You’re worth it,” he sighed happily as he closed his eyes.

Victor’s eyes opened with a snap. It took several seconds for him to realize that he was not in his room at the Avengers mansion. His heightened senses could detect nothing amiss but he knew that something had triggered his subconscious mind into high alert. He could smell the faint cedar-like aroma of Larry’s cologne. The other man was snuggled to his side, his head on Victor’s chest. Victor’s thumb absently stroked his head as he scanned his environment slowly.

Two occupants in the apartment. Two heartbeats. One deep breather.

Victor frowned. His fingers stopped its lazy explorative circle in Larry’s hair and slowly joined the rest of his hand to lay his palm against Larry’s back. There. He could feel the heartbeat, but the torso was motionless. There was no movement of the other man’s diaphragm expanding with intake of breath. He turned Larry gently onto his back, leaving his left arm under Larry’s head. Larry mumbled something under his breath, too soft even for Victor’s enhanced hearing to capture but he relaxed into the new position. Victor took a good look at Larry as the other man slept. After almost five minutes, his earlier observation was confirmed: Larry was not breathing.

This bears further examination. He made a snap decision.

He extended one of his claws. Several slow, gentle scrape against Larry’s skin should collect enough genetic data for the lab to analyse. Silently, on cat’s feet he dressed himself and left after leaving a scribbled note for Larry on the breakfast table.

He decided to walk a few ways before hailing a taxi. He had some thinking to do, and this kind of thinking is best done alone. 

Little bits of subtle discrepancies about Larry started becoming apparent to him as the night deepened. Despite the veneer of austerity, he was evidently well-read and well-educated. He peppered their conversation with several pop-culture references that ignored his coma and supposed amnesia. He had been in a coma fifteen years ago, but he remembered watching Moulin Rouge at the cinemas when it came out in 2001. He had spoken of the anti-capitalist demonstration in London in May 2001—as if he had been there—when he was supposedly lying on a hospital bed in Norfolk, Virginia.

Larry had become more of an enigma and Victor couldn’t help but feel a slight rush of anger. He was frustrated. Larry had not been what he appeared to be. Victor cannot really blame him. He himself was not without faults. He closed his eyes, surprised at how impotent he felt.

He needed help.

When Clint opened the door to his apartment to find a slightly dishevelled Victor standing there he was slightly surprised. He knew the man had gone out for dinner with Larry. Victor smiled sheepishly at him, and hefted a large barrel of fried chicken and a Corona six-pack. “Sorry to wake you up?” he ventured hesitantly.

Clint raised an eyebrow, spying the hickeys on Victor’s neck that were slowly fading as his healing factor worked. _There’s a story here,_ he thought.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint waved away the apology. “You brought food and beer, so I guess we’re even.” He motioned to one of the sofas. “What brings you here?”

“I don’t know where else to go, or who to talk to,” Victor admitted. “And since you live outside …”

“You don’t want to involve the others yet,” Clint finished shrewdly. “Does it have anything to do with Larry?”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re spotting the mother of all hickeys, your clothes were all rumpled, and your lips are raw looking …” Clint paused, and then frowned as he finished with, “and you’re walking funny.” His eyes snapped to Victor’s, concerned mirrored in their depths. “Victor Creed, did he hurt you?”

“What!?” Victor reeled back from the accusatory tone. “No! He didn’t.” He blushed slightly as he mumbled something Clint could not make out.

“Say again?”

Victor glared at him, then rolled his eyes with a small huff. “He fucked me. But he was gentle about it. It’s just … well, it was virgin territory after all.”

Clint almost spewed his beer. “I think I get the picture,” he said quickly. For some reason, one part of his mind was curious. Images of the blond giant and the dark-haired bartender locked in passionate love-making started worming their way in his mind. “Just tell me one thing, though,” he continued, “was it good?”

“One to ten? I’ll give it fifteen,” was Victor’s smug reply.

Clint was silent, just staring at Victor as he sipped at his beer. “So, why are you here then?” he asked slowly. “I mean, not that the company isn’t welcome but shouldn’t you be indulging in some serious after-sex cuddle session with the guy?”

Victor leaned forward, cupping his face in his hands. “That’s what brought this about,” he said by way of answering Clint’s question.

“Meaning?”

“We were cuddling, and I realize he wasn’t breathing.”

Clint stood up. “And you left your dead boyfriend in his apartment while you bring me fried chicken and beer? Victor, even for you that’s fucked up!”

“God, Clint! No, it’s not like that!” Victor raised his voice. He stood up, but raised his palms forward, showcasing that he meant no harm. “Let me finish, please,” he pleaded.

Clint sat back down. He waved his hand at Victor for him to continue.

“I can feel his heart beating. He’s alive. He mumbled when I moved him in the bed, and he stirred a bit before I left.”

“But he doesn’t breathe,” Clint added the unspoken rejoinder. Victor nodded. “Is that even possible?” Clint asked him.

“Not in my experience,” Victor answered. Clint decided that the statement have a great deal of weight; Victor—based on what they knew—had been alive since the mid-1800s.

Clint sipped at his beer again, thoughtful. Something landed on his lap. It was a small glass casing. He picked it up and held it up. There was a strand of black hair, and what looked like a nail clipping. He peered quizzically at Victor. “What’s this?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“His hair, and scrapings from his skin on my claw,” Victor answered.

“You want me to run this, but you don’t want the others to know,” he hazarded, making it a statement of fact.

“For now,” Victor confirmed. “He might be a mutant without him knowing it, and that’s not a crime.”

Clint considered the statement at length. The background research he had done on Larry was in one of the thumb drives on his desk. He decided to keep it to himself first. Maybe this new piece of the puzzle would give a clearer picture of the composite he had formed of the enigmatic man. He stood and went to his desk, placing the glass casing next to the thumb drive.

“I’ll run it through an old contact of mine first thing tomorrow,” he promised Victor. “He’s very discreet.”

Victor nodded, his expression hollow. If Clint didn’t know any better, it was as if the night’s events had sucked the will out of him.

“Hey,” he asked, rising from his seat to move to Victor’s side. He bumped Victor’s shoulders with his own. “You okay there?”

Victor wiped his face with his hands, exhaling gustily. “I don’t know, Clint,” he answered glumly. “I joined the good guys. Made a couple of friends. Fell for a guy. And he turns out to be different.”

Clint chuckled. He moved behind Victor on the sofa, leaving one leg hanging from the seat and the other running behind the bigger man’s back. His arms encircled Victor’s chest and squeezed.

“Clint!” Victor gasped. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Giving you a man-hug,” Clint said cheekily.

“A man-hug?”

“Yeah,” came the same cheeky tone. “You know, the kind of hugs guys give to each other when we’re commiserating with each other.”

Victor smirked. “That sounds gay.”

“You should know,” Clint snarked back.

Victor laughed. Clint’s shaking chest behind him told him that the man had joined in the laughter. “You’re an ass, you know that right?” he asked rhetorically.

Clint tutted. “Checking out my ass, Mr. Creed? Naughty man.”

Victor snorted. But he leaned back into Clint’s hug. It felt nice, surrounded by the archer’s well-developed arms—contrasting with Larry’s rangy build.

“You smell like sex,” Clint commented after a while.

“Well, d’uh.”

“If I say the smell is turning me on, would you think less of me?”

“No. I think that’s very honest of you,” Victor answered. He turned his head slightly, an asked, “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda turning me on.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You need to get laid, Clint.”

“You volunteering?”

“You wish.”

“And if I do?”

“Ugh. I’m not sure we should be having this conversation.”

Clint gave him another squeeze and released his hold, getting out from his position behind Victor. A hand brought Victor’s forehead to meet Clint’s gently. Amber eyes locked on steel blue. “You’re right, we shouldn’t,” Clint said softly before giving Victor a gentle kiss on the lips.

The gentle kiss was the last straw. Victor drew Clint into his arms and started sobbing quietly. Clint brushed his hands down Victor’s back, murmuring soft comforting words, “Let it out, Victor,” and “I gotcha, big guy.” After a few minutes, Clint could hear Victor take a deep breath. The kind of deep cleansing breath that most people take after a good cry.

“I’m a mess, aren’t I?” Victor asked.

“We all are,” Clint said agreeably. “You should trade stories with Natasha.”

“Ha! She’ll probably put her thumb in my eye.”

Clint chuckled at the image. “Come on,” he stood up, holding his hand out to Victor. “The sofa isn’t very comfortable.”

“You want to go to bed with me?” Victor asked askance.

“In the literal sense, so get your head out of the gutter,” Clint said as he smirked. “Besides, you could use a good cuddle.”

“Fine,” Victor huffed. “You got boxers I can borrow?”

 

* * *

 

Larry woke up languidly from his sleep—the first of that week. He stretched lazily, enjoying the pleasurable burn in ass as he recounted the frenetic fucking he had gotten last night. The cold side of the bed had him frowning and he sat up. A quick scan showed that only his clothes were on the floor from where Victor had tossed them after he had stripped him. He padded in the nude to the bathroom, but Victor was not there. A trip to the kitchen found him reading the note Victor had left for him.

_Emergency at work. I’ll call you later. –V_

He folded the note and placed it back on the table. Moving back to his room he tidied up the bed, changing the sheets and running the soiled ones in the wash. After straightening up, he traipsed into the shower.

The beating of the warm water on his skin felt heavenly. He felt his muscles loosen, almost rendering him rubbery as he luxuriated in the sensation. He lathered up, running his palms down his body and imagining it was Victor that was feeling him up. His hands found his cock, throbbing and erect. He hissed at the slick friction, recalling how Victor had felt around him …

_The shirt went flying away, with Victor smiling up at him. Larry was straddling Victor, the other man still embedded inside him—still hard and throbbing after his orgasm. They hadn’t managed to strip completely. Only their pants had been divested before Victor had sank himself balls-deep inside Larry after a hurried preparation._

_Their fucking had been wild and frenetic. Victor had placed Larry’s legs on his shoulders, while he raised the other man’s hips up to line himself before thrusting home. Over and over again, Larry’s cries and moans of pleasure had egged him on until Larry pulled him down for a bruising kiss and ripped his shirt apart as if it was made of tissue paper. “Deeper, Vic,” he had hissed. And deeper his thrust went, hitting that spot inside the other man. Larry was uninhibited in his appreciation, his grin almost manic as he rode out the wave of his orgasm. One look at Larry as he rode it out and Victor lost it. He felt himself cumming as ropes after ropes of pearly seed spurted out of Larry’s cock. His thrust became even more slick as his semen added to the lubrication._

_Larry pulled him down and pushed until he was on his back, still buried to the root inside the other man. Larry spread his cum across his belly and chest, undulating across his hips and Victor remained hard. When the other man started to nuzzle at his hairy chest—nipping at his nipples, laving at the bud with broad strokes of his tongue—Victor moaned loudly. He didn’t realize Larry had moved until his mouth was engulfing Victor’s cock, taking him all the way to the root as if he had no gag reflex. The languid, loving blowjob was interspersed with sweeping tongue swipes at his balls and perineum.  Larry then raised Victor’s muscular ass slightly off the bed, spreading the cheeks until he could spy the tight ring encircled by baby-fine blond hair. His tongue laved it lovingly and Victor groaned his pleasure. Lap, lick, lap and lick, and the tight ring relaxed to accommodate first one, the two fingers. Victor had elicited a surprised yelp when a third finger was added but he only grabbed at Larry’s shoulders as their lips met in a searing kiss._

_Larry’s fingers were gently removed, with Victor moaning their loss. It was replaced with the blunt head of Larry’s cock slowly working his way inside him. When half of his seven incher was in Larry paused, letting Victor get used to the feeling of being filled._

_“Move,” Victor had demanded after a few moments._

_Larry smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips as he slowly fucked the bigger man. They were on their side, Larry behind Victor and it allowed him to roam his hands across the magnificent spread of muscled, hairy flesh. He changed his tempo from quick jabs that punched Victor’s prostate to long slow strokes that slid across it. Victor’s palpitating hole gripped and clenched at him like wet silk gloves demanding his milky release and he obliged, sliding out until only the crown remained then sliding in in one glorious stroke before spilling himself inside Victor at the same time the bigger man came in Larry’s hands._

Larry cried out as he came, his release painting the shower tiles. He leaned his head against the shower wall, letting the water beat out the rest of the orgasm’s wave.

Ten minutes later found him on the train heading to work, another face in the usual morning hour rush. When he reached his station, he paused by one of the newsstands. One of the headlines leapt at him: _New revelation in triple homicide!_

He picked one of the newspapers up and passed his wad of singles to the man and waved away the change. He scanned the article, where it was noted that the three bodies found three weeks ago had an autopsy performed by a Dr Henry McCoy. McCoy was one of the leading scientific minds of the era, with qualifications in the fields of genetics and physics. The article cited McCoy confirming that despite the physical characteristics of the victims that they were not mutants. Larry did not miss the fact that he did not confirm if they were humans. The Avengers Unity Division had also called in an external specialist—a Dr Jorinda Abdullah-Williams—to corroborate McCoy’s initial findings. There was a press release scheduled later today at 1 PM.

Larry folded the newspaper and hurried to his workplace, making a note to switch on the news during lunch hour.

He went through his usual morning routine, setting up the bar and counting the daily stock to make sure they will last the day and forecasting any replacements or orders he needs to make. Vanessa and Charlotte were straightening up the floor and making sure they are ready for business. He mentioned to Vanessa that he would like to catch the news at one, and she nodded. She is a fan of the Avengers, and he knew she would switch the news on at the stipulated time. The rest of the day went by in a blur, until he could feel someone’s eyes boring through the back of his head. He glanced at the mirrored wall and noticed it was Charlotte standing behind him. She was clearing up the plates from a patron who had eaten at the bar.

“You got lucky last night?” Charlotte asked archly.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I got lucky last night,” Larry answered curtly. He was not in the mood to entertain Charlotte’s waspish comments.

“You sure this Victor guy is on the level?”

“Are you actually concerned about my wellbeing?”

“Not really,” Charlotte sniffed. “I just don’t want you moping around if it’s just a fun thing for him.”

“If you know something, then spill,” Larry growled.

“His boyfriend was here asking questions about you.”

“Whose boyfriend?”

“Victor’s, of course,” Charlotte answered smugly. At Larry’s blank look she added, “He came in with Victor once or twice, the one with those arms.”

“You mean, Clint?” Larry returned with a snort. “They’re colleagues, for crying out loud. Honestly, I don’t know where you get your gossip from!”

“Say,” Vanessa said as she came up to the bar and handing over her drinks order to Larry—a pitcher of Coke, three glasses, and a bottle of Perrier. “Do you happen to know Victor’s full name?”

“It’s Creed,” Larry answered, a small frown on his face. “Why?”

Vanessa grinned, and said, “Turn on the news.”

Larry placed the drinks order on a tray and glanced at the clock. It read two minutes past one. Larry grabbed the remote and switched the TV from the cable radio channel to the news. The view was that of the Avengers mansion, where a small stage with a podium at the centre had been set up at the front entrance of the mansion. News crews and anchors were milling about, waiting for the Avengers Unity Division to make an appearance. The door opened and Captain America walked out, followed by the rest of his team: Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver, Rogue … Larry started.

Rogue was Anna-marie. He could tell they were the same person, from the Southern accent when she greeted the press to the white streak in her hair. Steve was Captain America, no doubt about it. Although his eyes were covered by his shades, he recognised Clint’s easy smile and massive arms. His eyes searched for one more member he knew and he found him, hanging at the back, as if he was afraid he was unwelcome.

Victor Creed. _Sabretooth_. A heavy sense of trepidation—of foreboding—started to creep over him as he stared.

The TV screen flickered momentarily, but the telecast resumed with Rogue outlining the steps the Avengers had taken from working with the local constabulary, to referring to one of their colleagues to eliminate the possibility of mutant-related hate-crime.

One member of the press raised his hand to ask a question, which Rogue allowed.

“Conner Kent from Metro News,” he introduced himself. “Dr McCoy confirmed that they were not mutants, but he did not in fact confirm that they were humans. Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Another fritz of the TV screen happened again. This time longer before it flickered back to the telecast. Two of the light fixtures had flickered as well.

“What on earth is wrong with the TV?” Larry heard one of the patrons asked aloud.

Rogue had appeared prepared for the question. She looked behind her and nodded to Captain America. “Dr McCoy is a dear friend and a respected colleague but even he acknowledged that there are certain fields of expertise still quite beyond his range,” she said fondly. “We have another expert recommended to us by him, Dr Jorinda Abdullah Williams.”

Larry froze when he saw the woman who had stepped out to the podium. She had been escorted by Captain America and even through the telecast he could see the reverent look in his eyes when he looked at the woman. Larry did not blame him. The woman—Dr Jorinda Abdullah-Williams—had the face of a Renaissance angel, with her creamy skin and huge eyes. Her mass of brown curls were caught in a low queue at the nape of her neck, and she radiated quiet serenity.

In a flash he recognized her, the memories bursting from a hidden dam from the darkened recesses of his mind …

_“If ever you find yourself in danger, I will come,” she had promised._

_“Anything that can actually overpower me, might be more than you can handle,” he warned gently. He had known better than to discourage her. Despite the quiet serenity, she had a stubborn side._

_“But then there will be the two of us joined in power,” she reminded him as she stroke a finger against his. A small glimmer of her magical essence seeped through his skin, merging spellweaver essence with a shadowfey. “And I won’t come alone, you know that.”_

_“You would bring your entire coven with you?” he had asked._

_“Only willing volunteers,” she smiled sadly. “I will not command them to throw their lot with mine if they choose not to do so.”_

_“Apparently you haven’t heard the minstrels sing praises to the Witch of the Green Wood,” he teased._

_“Romance and fancies,” she shrugged prettily. “Much like that ballad_ The Witch Maiden and her Shadow Prince. _”_

The lights flickered again. This time, the TV started fritzing, the display turning into speckled back and white dots of white noise but the audio still audible.

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Abdullah-Williams greeted the members of the press. “I have gone through the <fritz> Dr McCoy and compared them against samples of <fritz> …”

_“You will do this for me?” he had asked._

_“You know I will,” she had said. “No one will know.”_

_“You seemed resigned to the fact that I’m leaving.”_

_“You have done enough,” she smiled. “I think you’ve earned your retirement, or at least an extremely extended holiday.”_

The lights flickered again. The telecast on the TV is practically unviewable, but the audio remained strong despite the occasional fritz.

“They are not mutants, and they are not humans. <fritz> not aliens. <fritz> genetic structure similar to humans <fritz>.”

_“Go now,” she had urged. “No one can enter your realm without your consent.”_

_“And leave you alone?” he had asked, concerned._

_“I am never alone, as long as I know the people I love are still alive,” she smiled. She gestured, and a portal of glimmering starlight appeared before him. “It’s the gate between the worlds,” she had said. “Once you pass through it, no knowledge of your previous life will remain. You will be as mortal as the denizens of the Material Plane. The Feywilds will be but an echo of a memory. Only you will remain unchanged.”_

_“You will take care of my people?” he had asked, stalling. He had known that she would._

_“It will be as if you were still ruling hand in hand with your consort, during your halcyon days,” she promised. She laid a gentle kiss on his brow. “Take the blessings of this Wytchdottir, Lord of Storm and Shadows. Run swift, and run free!”_

Free …

The TV exploded. The lights flickered and sparked, spitting arcs of lightning.

That was the final thing Larry remembered before he blacked out.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reaching the end of Part I, guys.   
> Let me know what you think :-)

Steve had been watching Jorinda as she answered the questions from the press. Rogue was at her side, helping to field the sea of raised hands. He couldn’t help the undeniable attraction he felt towards the witch. In some ways, her calm and unruffled air reminded him of Peggy—even to certain modes of her speech. She was wearing a simple shirt-dress in mint green but it might be royal regalia for all the dignified air she wore them with.  


“Careful, Cap,” he heard Clint murmur an aside from the left. “You’re drooling.”

“Will you cut it out, Clint,” Wanda hissed. “I swear to God, you and Pietro are worse than teenagers sometimes!”

   
Victor’s rumble of quiet laughter underscored Wanda’s statement, while Pietro’s indignant squawk drew a small smile from Steve.

“Do you think they’ll buy this?” Victor asked.

“We can always call Fox News,” Clint returned with a smirk. “Should take the brouhaha away from Caitlyn Jenner.” 

Victor smiled slightly at Clint’s sally. “It’s all a little too convenient, don’t you think?” he pressed.

“In what way?” Steve asked. 

“The three victims cannot be identified as human, nor do their genetic makeup exist in our very expansive database and now a complete stranger offers her help—with no expectation of payment in return—to spin this into some pseudo-scientific babble,” Pietro voiced out. “Was that what you were thinking?” 

“Something like that,” Victor agreed. “Tell me if this doesn’t smell a bit fishy to you.” 

“I agree with what you’re saying,” Wanda put in her two cents, a slight frown on her brow. “At the same time, as Steve had said, Jorinda has no reason to mislead us.” 

“You buy that whole story about the missing friend?” Clint asked. 

“I don’t think any of us actually believes that,” Steve stated firmly. 

“Gee, Steve,” Pietro remarked flippantly, “whatever happened to the blind adoration?” 

“Just because I think she’s one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen up close doesn’t mean my brain stops functioning,” he retorted, pointedly ignoring the amused looks thrown at him. “You have to consider the fact that she crossed the ward Agatha laid for us, something not even Loki or Amora could do—not without triggering the alarms, at the very least. And she said that spell resistance is a common trait among her people.” 

“She said that?” Wanda asked, with a small trace of alarm in her tone. 

“Maybe I’m reading a lot into it but from the way she phrased it the ability is not exactly a secret,” Steve answered her. 

“I see an overall theme here,” Clint mused thoughtfully. 

“Magic,” Victor stated. 

“Exactly.” 

“Do you remember that woman Adria?” Pietro asked. “The one with that weird leather armour?” 

“Yes,” Victor remembered. “She said something about the creatures being brave enough to show themselves.” 

“Hank had already emailed the results of his analysis a couple of days ago,” Wanda confirmed. “In the midst of coming back from Transia, and now with this press release it completely slipped my mind.” 

“We’ll take a look at it later,” Steve said. 

The questions-and-answers had apparently wrapped up. Jorinda had rejoined them, with Rogue at her side. 

“I think that should stave away some overly curious people,” Jorinda said. “Thank you for allowing me to access your archives, and for facilitating the audio-conference with the Drs McCoy and Pym last night.” 

“That was quick thinking,” Clint commended. “Piecing together the separate threads about the histories of the Inhumans, Eternals, and the Children of the Vault and then spinning it into something else.” 

“It was the truth, except in reverse,” she answered enigmatically. She gasped suddenly, and her left hand flew to the moonstone pendant. Her eyes searched Steve’s. “He’s here!” 

“Your friend?” Steve asked. 

She nodded. “He’s nearby, in the city.” 

“Do you have a lock on his location?” Clint asked. 

“Thirty degrees south by south-east, approximately fifteen miles,” she answered. “Once we’re nearer, I can get a more accurate location.” 

“You don’t happen to have any teleportation spell, do you?” Steve asked. 

She smiled. “I do, actually,” she answered. “But I’ll need your help since you’re more familiar with the city. What is in that direction?” 

“If it’s around fifteen miles, that would make it Bensonhurst,” Steve answered. 

“Wanda, pietro and I will join you later,” Rogue said. “We’re just going to wrap up here.” 

“Be careful,” Wanda cautioned as she turned to help her brother and Rogue handle the milling news team who had yet to leave. 

Steve gathered Jorinda, Victor and Clint with him as they moved to the other side of the mansion to gear up. 

“Bensonhurst, huh?” Clint echoed. He turned to Victor. “That’s near Pot O’Gold.” 

“Pot O’Gold?” Jorinda asked with some curiousity. 

“It’s a pub,” Victor answered. 

“His boyfriend works there,” Clint chirped in. 

“Well,” Jorinda said after a small smile at him. “We had best make sure he is safe, then!” She turned to Steve. “You’ll excuse me for this,” she said as she reached up to touch his temple. “I’ll need you to visualise a location in Bensonhurst that is approximately fifteen miles south, thirty degrees south-east.” 

Steve visualised the location, drawing on his memory of the neighbourhood and selected the corner of 15th and Bay Ridge Avenue. There was a slight tingle, and the faint trill of a melody as if from a strumming harp and they were transported to the location. 

Blares of sirens from police car and paramedics howled away in the background nearby. 

“Whoa,” Clint let out. “That was smooth,” he commented. “I hardly felt a thing.” 

Jorinda flashed them a look of triumph. “He’s within five hundred feet away, somewhere there,” she pointed south, behind the bank of buildings lining Bay Ridge Avenue. 

“That’s where the pub is,” Victor growled as he took off in a sprint in the direction. 

“Victor!” Steve called out. “God damn it,” he swore and took off after the blond. 

Clint and Jorinda trailed him from behind. When they rounded the corner, a paramedic van was just pulling out from the front of the pub. Victor was talking to one of the staff, a redheaded waitress. Clint could see Cap talking to one of the policeman inside the pub. 

“I’m going to see Cap,” Clint said. “Why don’t you do your thing and see if your friend is around?” 

Jorinda nodded at him and did a slow scan, one hand clasping the moonstone pendant as she searched with her mage-sense. The power unleashed practically permeated the surroundings, she could sense. She also sensed that this was an involuntary display, perhaps unleashed at some unknown provocation. The energy trail seemed localised, with the pub being the focal point. She could trace the mix of energy released, heat and electricity released haphazardly in a spontaneous and uncontrolled display. If not for the moonstone, she would have discounted this as a rogue losing control over their powers. 

 _Oh, Arden,_ she thought. _What happened here?_

She milled about, trying to sense if the elusive shadowfey she was tracking was still around the block but except for the concentrated energy trail from the pub there was nothing else. She passed by Victor, who was still listening to the redheaded waitress. 

“… he just collapsed! The lights were sparking, it was crazy!” she was saying as she passed them to enter the pub. 

Steve and Clint looked up from where they were talking quietly near a corner when she entered. Jorinda took in the TV that had seemed to have exploded. Some of the light fixtures showed similar damage. There were faint scorch marks on the floor, where she guessed the arcs of lightning would have hit. Except for the one collapse that she had gleaned, everyone else seemed to be unharmed. She walked over to join Steve and Clint. 

“I’ve told the rest to stand down,” Steve said. “Whatever happened here, we missed it.” 

“Only the bartender Larry, seemed to be the worse for wear,” Clint informed her as she approached them. “He was being rushed by the paramedics to the hospital. They suspect he may have gotten a nasty shock when the power shorted out.” 

“Victor’s boyfriend?” she asked. Clint nodded. “Have they been together long?” 

“They’ve just started dating a month ago,” Clint answered. 

A snippet of a conversation caught her ear. It was another waitress—a blonde, speaking to a plainclothesman. “… Larry just started seizing up, and spouted gibberish like he’s speaking in tongues.” 

“Would you happen to know what language or languages?” the plainclothesman asked. 

“I don’t know,” the blonde answered. “It sounded like Arabic, or something like that.” 

Jorinda stilled, earning a querying look from Steve and Clint. She moved away from them and approached the blonde waitress. Her heart started thumping, almost giddy at the unexpected lead. 

“Hi there, I couldn’t help overhearing your description,” she began, holding out her hand. “Dr Jorinda Abdullah-Williams, I work with the Avengers.” A little name-dropping doesn’t hurt, she decided. 

“Yeah,” the blonde nodded in recognition. “You were doing that press conference.”

“Do you think you could recall any words or phrases this Larry may have uttered?” she pressed, doing her best to tamp down the excitement in her voice. 

A deep furrow appeared on the blonde’s forehead. “Umm,” she hazarded. “Something like _ekaldun neina_?” 

“You mean _akalladûn nehinar_ ,” Jorinda corrected after a brief pause. She closed her eyes. _Akalladûn nehinar_ was Ilmara for _witch of the green wood_. 

“That’s it,” the blonde confirmed. “How did you know that?” 

“It’s a dead language, at least around these parts,” she deflected. She nodded at her. “Thank you for your time.” She retraced her steps to join Steve and Clint. 

“What was that about?” Clint asked her, his eyes shrewd. 

“Tell me, Clint,” she asked, ignoring his question. “This Larry, is he about five-eleven, lean rangy build, dark olive skin with black hair and dark brown eyes?” 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “You seem to know him. Care to share?” 

“Not here,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “Let’s collect Victor and return to your mansion.” 

Victor was waiting for them when they exited the bar. “I’m going to the hospital,” he announced, the set of his jaw belligerent. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jorinda said, heading him off. 

“The fuck you say, lady,” he growled at her. 

“My apologies,” she replied, ignoring the cuss. “What I meant is, your boyfriend will be fine. Trust me. He’ll be safe.” 

“How sure are you?” 

“As sure as anyone who knows that electricity cannot harm a shadowfey.” 

He took a step towards her, his longer legs bringing her face mere inches with his broad chest. She had to tilt her head up to look at him. “What are you saying?” he asked her. 

“I am saying that your boyfriend Larry happens to be my missing friend Arden.”

  
  


* * *

“I suppose I might as well start from the beginning,” Jorinda began as she looked at the Avengers and a few of their associates—the blue-furred Henry McCoy, the Amazon-like Joanna Cargill and the redheaded Natasha Romanov—gathered round the table in one of their conference rooms.

“In the beginning, before humans even began their climb on the evolutionary ladder, there were the Ilmari. At least, that is what we call ourselves—in our tongue, it means ‘firstborn’. For thousands of years, my ancestors developed our civilizations and until one day we encountered the first humans. Not understanding each other, our ancestors decided to weave enchantments that would shield our cities and homes from yours. It worked for a long uncounted while, until humans started evolving in both form and mentality.

“Your ancestors became more populous, whereas our kind dwindled slowly with only a handful of young born to each generation. Humans are quick to adapt, claiming it all from plains, forests, even the seas while our ancestors kept retreating quietly. It seems that even nature—whom we had lived with in harmony for so long—was favouring humanity. Some retaliated at the intrusion into their domains with acts of petty mischief, but unfortunately that only fuelled both fear and mistrust the humans harboured towards our kind. Desperation started to settle in, when some of my kind decided that cannot stand aside while humans steadily encroached into our lands, or killing our kind. To be fair, the killings were necessary as they were unprovoked attacks by our wilder cousins. But in the end, the reasoning did not matter; the First Schism happened, breaking apart our society into clearly demarcated lines. Light and Dark. Good or Evil.

“For the first time, evil has a face and form. They were our darker cousins maddened by grief, vengeance and bloodlust. It started out with retributive assassinations. Then came their wild raids, annihilating human settlements. It escalated into outright massacre. You could say it was the first of the many genetic cleansing this world later see. Some of the he goodly ones came out of hiding and started offering aid but were largely rebuffed.

“The Council of Elders for the Light Ilmari decided that we had been too complacent in our stance and decided on an incisive move that would take the battle to the Dark Ilmari. It culminated—after several clashes—on the great plains where both sides met the other in tests of both mettle and magic. The war lasted decades until the spellweavers devised a great spell that would remove the Dark ones from the world.

“It was a perilous spell, for magic was not without its price: a great working demands much from its wielder. This particular spell demands a willing sacrifice for it work. When it came to draw lots, there was a shock as the younger scions from the ruling clans volunteered …”

“Very  _Hunger Games_ ,” Clint murmured. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging at Steve’s glare and Natasha’s frown.

Jorinda gave him a small smile in understanding, and continued with her narrative.

“One volunteer each from the ruling houses of there werebeasts, spellweavers, elementars, invokers, mentalists and dryads; and the spell was enacted during a staged event where we tried to draw the Dark ones into a baited trap. It worked all too well as they broke through the Light’s defences and attempted to stop the spell from being completed. In her hurry, the Great Crone working the spell gave the signal that would draw the lifeblood from the willing sacrifice—even knowing as she did what the price would be for taking a short-cut: the power the spell invoked lifted all of us—Light and Dark—and shunted us to a different dimension. It is a mirror world that occupies the same space as the material world—this Earth—but on an alternate plane of existence.”

“The Faerie Realm,” Steve said aloud.

“The Feywilds,” Jorinda confirmed.

“I have a question,” Joanna said. “And before that, I would like to say that I believe you’re telling the truth. I’ve seen demons before, so I guess faeries don’t sound too far-fetched.”

“Just don’t expect us all to have gossamer wings,” Jorinda replied drolly. “Your question?”

 “If you said it lifted both the good and evil ones,” Joanna asked, “then how come you are here?”

 “Good question,” Jorinda acknowledged. “I was just getting to that.”

 “As time passed,” Jorinda picked up her thread of narrative, “both Light and Dark came to a tenuous cease-fire: the reason for their war had been removed after all when they were transported over to their new world. As decades passed they rebuilt their civilizations of old, claiming lands and domains to call their own. We discovered that despite being removed from the material plane, there are portals that joined our world with others—including Earth. Travel is usually limited to certain conditions, such as season or number of people travelling. There are also spells that allow travel between worlds, but they are costly and drain too much resources.”

“So your two factions are now getting along?” Natasha asked, her tone sceptical.

“No, Ms. Romanov,” Jorinda answered, a grim tone in her voice. “Don’t misunderstand. Evil contained is not evil removed. It festers and builds. Cease-fire was fine during the early years of discovering they were in a new realm. There were all those lands to claim, after all. After aeons of trapped in that mirror world, you can guess what happened next.”

“War,” Natasha stated.

“That’s one,” Jorinda affirmed. “Nothing lasts forever, and the barrier between the worlds are starting to unravel. Some of the wilder ones, and definitely the Dark ones have been testing the barriers. I know there have been excursions already as some managed to cross through the weakening barrier.”

“Like the tarasque we fought a couple of weeks ago,” Victor answered. He turned to Rogue. “She said that those things are getting more daring.”

“Oh?” Jorinda asked Rogue. “I wasn’t aware you know of the wild ones.”

“Not me,” Rogue explained. “Victor meant this woman we met after we defeated it.”

“Could you describe her to me?”

“Tall and lean. Glossy black hair, pale skin and cat-like eyes. She sounds Latin.”

“Was she wearing a tight-fitting leather armour?” Jorinda asked. “She would have a pair of curved swords on holsters strapped to her mid-thighs, and a clutch of throwing blades strapped to her forearms.”

“That’s a pretty accurate description,” Rogue noted. “You know her?”

“Adria and I are colleagues, of sorts,” Jorinda replied. “She’s a mentalist.”

“Mentalist?” Pietro asked with definite interest. “She cast spells, too?”

“Some,” Jorinda had to smile at the agog look on the speedster’s face; Adria have always had that effect on men. “She can read minds and create telekinetic constructs.”

Henry McCoy cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold as to ask,” he started. “Why the pressing need to find your friend after all this while? From what little I have inferred, there was a good reason he fled the Feywilds.”

“We need his help to re-power the barriers between the two worlds.”

“You don’t mean as a sacrifice, do you?” McCoy said, sparing Victor a quelling glance at the other man’s growl of distress.

“No,” Jorinda said. “The enchantment was already in place. There is no need re-cast it. It’s like changing batteries.”

“Ah,” McCoy nodded in understanding. “But why him? No offense to Victor of course, but what makes him that special?”

“It all ties back to the spell when it was first cast. When the scions of the ruling houses gave their life that became part of the stipulation.”

“Ruling house?” Victor started, eyes widening slightly. “Wait, are you saying Larry—I mean, Arden is …?” he asked Jorinda.

“Arden Ciarr was—or still is, rather—the Lord of Storm and Shadows, King of the Shadowfey,” Jorinda confirmed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regained memories, and more revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time around before I wrap up Part I.
> 
> I have decided to include Joanna Cargill (aka 'Frenzy') from the X-Men in the story. 
> 
> I have always found her character arc to be one of the more fascinating one out of all the X-Men: from being a member of Magneto's Acolytes, to being mind-controlled by Phoenix into working with the X-Men, her desire to retain her memory from the alternate timeline where she was married to Cyclops ... it's interesting that despite being a mutant, she is still all too human.
> 
> Being Hank's assistant, I think is the most logical move for her in her ongoing quest to redeem and remould herself into the hero she wanted.

The faint smell of lavender, mixed with the acrid tang of antiseptics niggled at him. Faraway echoes of footsteps and a hushed conversation close by.

_A hospital_ , he thought.

He slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the fluorescent glare of the overhead lighting. He moved his head slowly, taking in the dimensions of the room. A crop of blond hair of someone sitting on the right had him shift himself to get a better look. Clint’s steel blue eyes met his.

“Hey there?” Clint said with a small smile. “Welcome back.”

“What happened?” he asked, struggling to get up.

Clint moved quickly to help, positioning him so his back was supported by the pillows. “You passed out, been out for two days,” Clint answered. “Victor didn’t leave your side except to shower.”

“Could you get him?”

 “In a while,” Clint said. “Hank asked me to make sure you’re okay before letting in more than one visitor.”

“You could always leave when he comes in,” he retorted.

“Nice try,” Clint said with a grin. “Your friend the witch might turn me into a toad if I went against Hank’s instructions.”

“No she won’t,” he replied easily. “Toads multiply at a ferocious rate, and knowing her that’ll be just aggravating. Most likely she’ll turn you into a turnip and watch as rabbits munch on you.”

“She wouldn’t!” Clint exclaimed, blanching.

“Jory’s a sweetheart, but it wouldn’t pay to get on her bad side,” he warned.

Clint gave him a long, considering look. “You seem to remember her.”

He looked at Clint levelly. “So it seems,” he agreed. “I can remember things quite well now.”

 

_He remembered standing at the top of the dais, looking down to the sea of faces looking up at him. Around them, the blinding white walls of the Argent Palace reflected the light of the full moon shining down on his realm._

 

“What’s your name, then?” Clint asked, testing him.

“Arden Ciarr, Firstborn of Clan Illirien, ruler of Shadivari,” he rattled off exasperatedly. “Now, can you please get Victor now or do I have to make you?”

“Or what? You’ll turn me into a turnip?”

“No,” Arden said, making a show of wiggling his fingers. “I’ll drain your soul and then animate your body to get Victor.”

Clint’s eyebrows rose at that. “Okaaay,” he drawled. “You win,” he said as he hurried out.

Minutes later—minutes that seemed to take too long—and Victor was at the door. His cropped blond hair looked damp, and he looked slightly wrung out.

“Hi,” he greeted Arden tentatively.

“Come here,” Arden said with a smile, patting the left side of the bed.

Victor came into the room, and sat on the bed, facing him. He brushed Arden’s cheek with the back of his hand. Arden reached up and clasped the hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the palm.

“I am myself again,” he stated simply. “I am sorry I couldn’t tell you back then. I wasn’t even sure of what I am at the time.”

Victor smiled, then leaned forward to kiss him softly. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against Arden’s own. The movement of his lips brushing against Arden’s. “I told you before you’re worth it.”

Arden smiled, and kissed him.

“Oh!” came the exclamation from the door. A woman with skin the colour of dark café au lait and sporting a well-tamed mane of dreadlocks was standing at the door, with a blue-furred man standing slightly behind her.

“Don’t you people know how to knock?” Victor groused.

“Be fair, love,” Arden chided gently. “The door was ajar, after all.”

Victor blushed slightly at the endearment. He sneaked a peek at Cargill and McCoy. Cargill was blushing, while McCoy was amused. He turned to Arden, kissing him one more time before standing up from the bed with a show of reluctance.

“I’d better let the doctor do his thing,” he murmured. Another kiss, this time on his brow. He nodded to the two who had filed into the room. “Cargill, McCoy. He’s all yours,” he said, leaving the room but not before turning back and leaving another heated look at Arden.

“I think he’s more yours, Victor,” the woman—Cargill—returned with a giggle.

“So, Your Majesty,” the blue-furred man started, taking out a small pen-light from his chest pocket. “How are we feeling today?”

“I think we can dispense with the formalities, Dr McCoy. Just Arden will do,” he said. “I don’t feel any worse for wear.”

“You haven’t eaten in two days,” Cargill pointed out. “But you don’t seem to be malnourished.”

“Shadowfey trait,” Arden answered her. “As we mature, or grow in power—whichever comes first—certain biological needs are mitigated.”

“Interesting,” McCoy murmured. He drew a seat for Cargill and himself.

“Do you mind if I note this down?” Cargill asked. “I don’t want to seem rude, but I think this kind of information is important.”

“By all means,” Arden allowed. “I was about to suggest you do so. There may come a time when you might find this kind of knowledge useful. Especially if faced with a Dark fey.”

“Are they really that powerful?” Cargill asked, her pen scribbling across the small notepad in her hand.

“At our peak, shadowfey are immune to nonmagical poisons and diseases. In our shadow form we can bypass any physical hits. We are immune to electricity and cold, and resistant to fire.” He paused. “You understand that I am just describing one species. There are others just as powerful, if not more so.”

Cargill swallowed. “Noted,” she said. “Going back to what you were saying earlier, what kind of biological needs are we talking about here?” Cargill probed further. “I’m guessing food and water aren’t really necessary anymore?”

“Correct,” Arden confirmed. “I do not require sleep, food or drink.”

“But you were sleeping,” Cargill pointed out.

“True,” Arden allowed. “When I say sleep, I meant it as the usual resting mode most need. We do need our rest, where we undergo a recuperative state when we re-channel our powers to be usable again after considerable exertion.”

“Like charging batteries,” Cargill commented.

“Just so,” Arden agreed. “And sometimes, it’s nice to be able to dream.”

“Magic has a price,” McCoy murmured. “Well, I suppose conventional medical check-up won’t yield much usable information then. Do you have a suggestion?”

“Jory can do it,” Arden supplied. “Being a healer, she qualifies as a medical doctor.”

“How good is she?” Cargill asked with some curiousity. Arden decided he liked her inquisitive mind.

“Put it this way,” Arden described, “if the two of you were born in there, you would have been her apprentices. The only people whose knowledge of healing that may rival hers would be either the Great Mother or the Great Crone of the Witches, or the sylvarren.”

“Sylvarren?” McCoy asked.

“Elves.”

“Elves are real?” Cargill asked, a tinge of excitement in her voice.

“Yes, they are real. Just as graceful and majestic as Tolkien had envisioned them.” Arden confirmed with a small smile, adding, “and just as snooty, too.”

Cargill let out a small laugh as she stood. “I knew it!” she crowed to herself. “I’ll go get the witch,” she said, leaving them.

“I note that you seem quite well-versed with popular culture,” McCoy nodded.

“I was wondering if anyone had picked up on that,” Arden said with a slow smile. “And don’t worry, this isn’t a secret; being familiar with popular culture is a necessity and sometimes accidental.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“The Light fey will routinely send scouting parties to this plane to search and root out any Dark fey that managed to cross over—we’ll get to that in a while. During the scouting expedition, we’ll try to compile information about the material world that basically charts humanity’s evolution, how to blend in and the like.” He smiled. “I was in one such expedition when I was younger. I lived in different countries each month for two years. That was how I knew Jory and Adria. We were part of the same team.”

“I see,” McCoy nodded in understanding. “What about the accidental part?”

“Sometimes, people from the material world stumbled across portals to the Feywilds. If they were lucky to meet members of the Light, they would be given shelter and then sent back on their way home with a mild charm suggesting that the brief sojourn was a dream. I’m sure you have read about people announcing being captured by aliens, or unexplained missing persons.”

“Ah, could you go back to the part about rooting out the Dark fey crossing over? Why is that important? I believe Jorinda mentioned that the portals can only accommodate so much traffic.”

“That is true,” Arden confirmed. “But you also have to understand that we are essentially nature’s avatars—of sorts. We are creatures of tradition and form. There was a reason the spell of forbiddance was designed to target only the Dark ones. The parallel would be that when clearing a land, the trees uprooted were ensured so that no seed or root was left behind. Unfortunately, when the Great Crone rushed the ritual, the forbiddance did not discriminate between alignments; instead it follows the strict genetic lineage of only pureblood Ilmari and shunted Light, Dark and everything in between—like the wild ones who remained neutral—behind its barrier.”

“And the importance of rooting out the Dark fey …”

“You’re a smart man, doctor,” Arden prompted. “Key hints being  _root_ and  _seed_ .”

“They’re breeding here?!?”

“Not quite,” Jorinda’s voice prompted from the doorway. “Do the words  _incubus_ ,  _succubus_ , or even  _leanan sidhe_ ring any bells?”

“They’re breeding with humans?” McCoy was aghast. “Why?”

“Because the progeny of such union will not be a pureblood Ilmari, and not subjected to banishment behind the forbiddance,” Jorinda answered. “They will have all the strengths of their parents, and few of the weaknesses; moving undetected in both worlds.”

“That was one of the reasons I left the Feywilds,” Arden explained. “When abdicating my throne, I wanted to draw out the more powerful Dark ones out. After all, capturing the ruler of the shadowfey would be quite a coup. And I also wanted revenge.”

“Revenge?” McCoy asked.

“They murdered my husband,” Arden answered.

“It went wrong, I take it?” came Victor’s voice as he entered. “Sorry to barge in, but Cargill told me it’s storytelling time,” he said wryly. He reclaimed his earlier seat on the edge of bed, his fingers searching out Arden’s to link themselves together.

"The opposite, actually,” Arden answered, a slight touch of annoyance in his tone. “It worked all too well. When Jory created the tunnel between the worlds, it basically sent out little signals of my movements to her—who was monitoring it, as well as to anyone who cared to listen.” He paused. “Unfortunately, Lorien and his ilk were waiting for me.”

“Lorien?” Victor asked.

“Lord of the Whampiri,” Arden supplied. “Vampires, of sorts. Minus the bursting into flames, or glittering in sunlight.” Cargill snorted at the reference. Arden grinned at her. “The Whampiri Lord is always accompanied by his Horsemen; they were his elite guard made up of spellcasters, and fighters. Originally there were twelve. One defected to our side, four slain in battle by me, Jory, Adam and Adria.”

Cargill raised an eyebrow at Jorinda, who just shrugged demurely. “Their sorcerer decided he was up to challenging the Witch Maiden,” she answered the unasked question. “I disabused him of that notion.”

“Maiden?” Victor and Cargill echoed almost simultaneously.

“Not in the way you think it meant,” Jorinda said. “I suppose, closest approximation of the term would be princess. At any rate, by the time our marshalled forces arrived to meet them head on, we only found a crater the size of Manhattan and several of the Horsemen obliterated beyond recognition.” She looked at Arden, “That was you, I gathered?”

“I was aiming for Lorien,” Arden shrugged. “Three of his Horsemen decided to take the proverbial bullet for him.”

“Only four left then,” Jorinda said with a small twist of her lips.

“He is planning something,” Arden mused.

“He tried to seize your power,” Jorinda pointed out. “If he had drained you of your life force, he would have absorbed your powers as well.”

“And gain control of Shadivari.”

“The location itself has a lot to recommend it,” Jorinda mused.

Jorinda and Arden looked at length at each other. At an unspoken agreement, Arden raised himself from the bed. “That vermin thought he could kill my husband, try to kill me and seize my kingdom, and think I will just sit by and allow him,” he said, his voice hard. “I am going to show him what happens to vermin when caught. Are you still in contact with Christabel?”

“Chris, Adria and Adam are here at the mansion,” Jorinda answered. “They arrived yesterday.”

“Well, I hope they haven’t unpacked,” Arden said with a slight snort.

“You’re leaving for the Feywilds?” Victor asked, standing up.

“Well, obviously not without you,” Arden smiled at him fondly, wrapping one of his arms around Victor’s waist. “Want to see the place? The Forest of Rurre are lovely this time of year.”

“Can I come, too?” Cargill said cheekily. Underneath the humour, however Arden could detect an earnest desire in the woman to see the magical place that is his home.

“The more the merrier,” Arden smiled at her.

Jorinda shook her head fondly at them. “Christabel is going to have conniptions, you do realize that,” she pointed out drily.

“And you wouldn’t want to miss it,” Arden smirked.

“You’re right,” Jorinda smiled widely.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposition, some conversations and return to the Feywilds.

It was decided that Clint, Steve, Natasha and Cargill would accompany Victor. Sam had been crushed to find out that due to the technology dampening feature of the Feywilds, a large portion of his skills set would be rendered useless. Rogue promised to keep an eye out for more fey-related happenings, aided by the large dossier that Arden and Jorinda had provided.

Arden was in his apartment, looking over them wistfully. For the last three years, it had been his home. It was not much, now that he could compare it to the Argent Palace that was the seat of his kingdom in the Feywilds, but it had provided him a sense of comfort. A knock on the door drew his attention, as it opened to let in Clint.

“You’re leaving your stuff here?” Clint asked, looking around the living room.

“The lease is paid up till next year,” Arden shrugged. “I might need this place later if I ever decide on a jaunt.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Clint started, a sheepish smile on his face. “I did some digging, back when you were still ‘Larry’ and a few things jumped out. And a couple of stuff you and Jory told us kinda have some gaps in them.”

“I’ll answer it if I can,” Arden allowed. “What is it that you want to know?”

“If you’ve been moving around for the past—what, ten years?—where did the money come from?” he asked. “And second, if the wards are supposed to keep you guys away, how come some of them keep coming back here? And for that matter, you and your friends seem much more familiar with the local environment than a two year expedition taken when you were in your teens would suggest.”

“Quite the investigator,” Arden noted. “And no, I’m not offended,” he assured Clint with a smile. “I understand that your actions came with good intentions.”

“It’s just that Victor doesn’t exactly have it easy in the past,” Clint explained. “And I feel for the guy, trying to redeem himself.”

“Of course,” Arden said. He paused for a moment before he started explaining, “The money came from one of our contacts. We have some of our people here keeping an eye on things. Despite my apparent incommunicado status, they kept depositing the money—at my instructions—because my fate was still unknown.”

“Wait,” Clint cut in, holding up a hand. “I thought all of you guys were transported to the Feywilds when the spell was first cast?”

“Some of our ancestors were humans,” Arden replied. “There are some humans who are gifted with an affinity for magic, or more in tune with the magic of the fey. Sometimes they braved the barriers and crossed over into the fey wilds. Their progeny—possessing the heritage of both worlds—can choose to either remain in the Feywilds, or join their human parents back in the material world. That is one the many important reasons for the scouting exercises. This duality will be passed along to our descendants, regardless of the time lapsed.”

“ _Our_ ,” Clint echoed, as his eyes widened slightly. “So … you’re part human?”

“A very small part, I’m a tenth-generation descendant,” Arden answered. “So are Jory, Christabel, Adam and Adria, which is why they are the most common scouts the Light utilise.”

“The Ice Queen is part human eh?” Clint smirked.

Arden snorted, rolling his eyes. Christabel had not exactly endeared herself to the Avengers with her aloof nature. Cargill had called the mentalist “another Emma Frost duplicate” once, eliciting a giggle from Rogue and Wanda. The statuesque blonde had merely replied coolly that Cargill was correct, and that she had better keep that in mind. The three women had raised their eyebrows and exchanged looks at each other. The only person that the mentalist had warmed up to had been McCoy. Thinking about it, Arden couldn’t say that he was surprised. Christabel have always been intrigued by intelligence and wit, and despite his bestial appearance McCoy’s company was the only one that she welcomed. In the past four days while they waited for summons from one of their contacts from the Light’s Council, he had seen the two of them discussing literature and art.

Arden knew the reason for that behaviour, but out of respect for the mentalist he remained silent.

“Just don’t rub her face in it,” Arden warned. “She’s not just a broad-spectrum psychic, she’s also a formidable fighter.”

“She can fight?” Clint asked, intrigued. “Style?”

“Chris favours the rapier, and she uses a dagger for her off-hand weapon. As for hand-to-hand combat, I think the closest approximation would be hapki-do.”

“You mentioned she’s a broad-spectrum psychic. What’s that?”

“In addition to telepathy, she also has the following psychic powers: metabolic control, psychometry, and telekinesis.”

“What?” Clint exclaimed. “Forget Emma Frost, she’s Jean Grey!”

Arden laughed, inferring from Clint’s reaction that this Jean Grey is an unstoppable force. “No, nowhere as powerful,” Arden returned, amused at Clint’s reaction. He would have to meet these two women one of these days, he decided. “Her telekinesis is  quite weak. When it first started, she can only move about ten pounds up to a distance of thirty feet. Of course, it has developed further since then.”

“Noted,” Clint said with a small smirk. “I’ll leave Cargill to do the heckling. The invulnerability should come in handy.”

 “You’re incorrigible,” Arden said with a small laugh. “And invulnerability wouldn’t stop Chris. She would probably pinch Cargill’s heart ventricles shut or something like that.”

“Holy shit!”

“She might have hinted at it through her behaviour,” Arden explained. “Christabel is to the mentalists what Jory is to the spellweavers,”

“Like a princess?” Clint guessed.

“Close, but not quite. Mentalists’ government—or chain of command—are based on meritocracy,” Arden elaborated. “Which is a necessity when one is talking about an entire race predisposed towards psychic abilities.”

“That makes sense,” Clint agreed. “What do they use as benchmarks?”

“Power, of course,” Arden replied. “And skill. They’ll rank from one to ten, in ascending order.”

“How do the scales work?”

“In terms of telepathy, how many seconds it takes for a surface scan to sift through a target’s weekly memory,” Arden answered. At the blank look on Clint’s face, he further explained, “In Chris’ case, it takes her one second to capture ten weeks’ worth of information from a surface scan.”

“That’s it?”

“Can you tell me what you had for breakfast ten weeks ago? Or what was the verbatim of the conversation you had with Victor from that time?” Arden pointed out.

“Put it that way, that does sound frightening,” Clint allowed with a slight wince. “I guess she’s a ten?” Arden nodded. “So, what are your powers?” Clint asked, curious.

“You’ll see, when we’re in the Feywilds,” Arden with a wink.

“Aaaww, man,” Clint griped. “Tease,” he said with a huff.

“Victor doesn’t think so,” Arden retorted with a salacious grin.

“Gaaah!” Clint cried out with a grimace. “TMI!”

Arden grinned. Victor had mentioned that out of the rest of the Avengers, Clint and Rogue had been two of his more vocal supporters. The bond between the two men had developed from a guarded respect to something akin to that of comrades-in-arms, if not friendship. Arden could see why. The archer had a relaxed, whimsical air to him, letting the people around him be at ease. It could be his spy training, or his natural charm but Arden decided that was neither here nor there.

“So, what’s your story?” Arden asked. “I know about Victor’s inversion, and the stories about the Maximoffs, Steven and Rogue are pretty much well-documented …”

“You want to know about the marksman-cum-spy who is your boyfriend’s best friend?” Clint supplied the unfinished question. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Start with the night that you kissed Victor, then work your way back,” Arden stated, a small grin on his face.

“Oh.” Clint plopped into the sofa, and buried his face in his hands. “He told you about that, huh?”

“He did,” Arden answered. He scooted over to where the other man was sitting, bumping his shoulder. “And before you start thinking I’m going to blast you into cinders, no I’m not angry. Or jealous.”

“You’re not?”

“He  _is_ ruggedly sexy,” Arden pointed out with a smile. “And you’re a good-looking man with arms out to the moon.”

“Huh,” Clint said with a huff. “You’re awfully nonchalant about it.”

“Two gorgeous specimens representing different types of manly beauty locked in a passionate kiss?” Arden opined out loud. “No, nothing nonchalant about that.”

Clint just stared at him as if he had just announced he had decided to move to the dark corners of the Congo and take up cannibalism. His deer-in-headlights looked even more pronounced when Arden leaned in.

Clint did not know what to expect from the kiss. It hadn’t been angry or rousingly passionate. Nor had it been desperate. It was soft, with a gentle yearning behind the way they had teased the corner of his mouth or the carding of Arden’s fingers through his hair. He responded, wrapping his arms around Arden, cradling the back of his head as he ventured tentatively into the kiss. Arden withdrew after a moment, a small wondering smile on his lips. Lips that were plump, and sinfully moist.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Clint protested. He hated the fact that it sounded weak even to his own ears.

“Victor’s fine with it,” Arden brushed off his statement with a small laugh.

Clint continued to stare at him. “What?” he asked dumbly. It felt surreal.

“Victor and I talked about the kiss that you two had,” Arden said with a small shrug. “He said you’re a good kisser.”

He felt a slight unthawing at the unreality of it. “Really?” he asked, not caring how insensible he sounded.

“Really,” Arden answered. “And having experienced it, I’m inclined to agree.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Clint said, standing up and running his hands through his hair. “Are you hinting at what I think?”

Arden leaned back into the sofa, a smirk on his face. “Depends on what you think I’m hinting at,” he said.

“Victor, you, me,” Clint motioned with his hands, the gesture wild and unfocused. “A three-way relationship?”

“If that is what you desire,” Arden said, hopping up on his feet. “I won’t come between the friendship between you and Victor. Stars, a man needs friends after all. But I also would like to know his friend, as well.”

“In the Biblical sense?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Arden said firmly. “Think about it.”

“Victor is fine with this?”

Arden let out a small laugh, and a slight blush. “He suggested it, in fact,” he said, glancing at Clint before clamming up abruptly. His blush became bigger, until his entire faced was suffused.

“Do I even want to know?” Clint asked slowly.

“Do you?”

“Okay, I’m curious.”

There was a small pause, and a deep inhalation before Arden mumbled out, “Wetookturnsfuckingeachotherpretendingitwasyou.”

“Oh,” was his only response, followed by, “Victor bottoms, too?”

“That was your main take-away from that?” Arden asked with some amusement.

Clint grinned, his manner becoming more relaxed. “Oh no, I got all of it,”” he assured Arden. “Didn’t think I’ll get to fuck both of you.” At Arden’s raised eyebrow, he added, “and that I’m going to get fucked by a ruggedly sexy Viking, and a fey king.”

“You seemed to have adapted pretty quickly to the idea,” Arden observed.

“I’m adaptable,” Clint replied smugly. He was surprised that as he said it, he realized that he was.

“I’m sure there’s a story in there somewhere,” Arden commented.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Clint returned with a wink. He turned back to the apartment. “So,” he said. “What do you want to bring back?”

 

* * *

Steve, Wanda and Pietro were helping Jorinda with gathering the items she had requested. The three of them were standing in front of the small shop, looking at the sign. _Bonejewel_ , it read. Steve could see a calico cat sunning itself on the display window that had rushes of dried sage gathered in several bunches.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Pietro commented.

Steve was inclined to agree. The spellweaver hideout was not what he expected it to be. Wanda threw her brother an exasperated look.

“She said we’ll have to look for one of her contacts,” Wanda said, looking at the list that containing the items Jorinda had written down in her neat, elegant script.

A small tinkle of a chime alerted them to a petite young woman exiting the shop. She spared them a cursory glance and went on her way. Steve squared his shoulders. “Shall we?” he suggested, holding the door open for Wanda and Pietro.

The inside of the shop was well-lit, but cluttered with merchandise ranging from decks of tarot cards to a stand of loose herbs. Wanda had gone over to the stand and stooped slightly to take a whiff from the dried lavender buds in one container.

“Cleansing, isn’t it?” a gentle feminine voice came from behind them. The woman was standing on the stairs leading up, one hand on the banister as she walked down to greet them. She was of Asian descent, her skin the complexion of light teak. “I’ve always found that lavender absolute, mixed with jojoba oil tends to ease the tensions of the day,” she was saying.

“I’ll have to get some then,” Wanda said with a smile. “Do you have any other recommendations?”

The other woman levelled an appraising look at Wanda. “That depends, Scarlet Witch, on what you intend to do,” she stated. The three of them started. Pietro stuttered, while Steve and Wanda glanced at each other helplessly. She waved a hand at their expressions. “I do watch the news, you know,” she explained tartly. “So, what can I do for you?”

Wanda handed over the list to her. The woman’s dark almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she perused the list. “These are expensive,” she stated flatly. “And do you know what you are doing with these?”

“A friend of ours do,” Pietro chimed in.

“A friend you say?” she returned. “Not many witches around here who can cast a transportation spell of this magnitude.”

“You might know her,” Steve supplied. He lowered his voice slightly. “Jorinda Abdullah-Williams.”

The woman’s eyes widened, her face going pale. “The Witch Maiden?” she gasped. Steve nodded. She shook herself together. “Follow me.” She pointed to several earthenware urns on the right side of the shop. “You’ll need five pounds of sulphur, two pounds of grain salt.”

Pietro moved, like his namesake, and he had the items weighed and tied in individual plastic packets in a matter of seconds. “Anything else?” he asked cheekily.

“He’s your brother, isn’t he?” the woman asked, her tone one part accusatory and one part amused.

“Unfortunately,” Wanda replied with a roll of her eyes, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. Pietro responded by sticking out his tongue.

The woman chuckled at them. She turned to look at Steve. “Would you mind reaching up for that box?” she asked, pointing to a black lacquered box sitting on the far right corner of one of the shelves.

“What’s inside here?” Steve said after he laid the box on the counter the woman had motioned him to.

“Marking chalk, charged with dragon’s blood,” she answered as she opened the box.

Several sticks of chalk the colour of pale yellow sat in the velvet-lined box. Each stick of chalk was roughly six inches in length, and interspersed with flakes of copper. She took a pair of tongs and carefully inserted three of them into a velveteen pouch with drawstrings. One other she placed in a separate bag.

Steve frowned. “She only asked for two of them,” he pointed out.

“I know,” the woman replied. “One is with my compliments.” She nodded her head to the lone stick in its separate bag. “The other one is for you, Ms. Maximoff,” she said to Wanda. “She will teach you how to use it.”

“Thank you,” Wanda replied.

After the rest of the items were gathered—and the woman waved off the payment for the total accrued—the three of them made their way back to the mansion.

Jorinda was waiting for them at the solar, where she and Victor had been setting up the place for the spell to transport them to the Feywilds. The rattan furniture and the plush carpeting had been moved to one side, leaving the rough granite floor bare. The two of them were on their knees, tracing some patterns on the floor. Jorinda was most likely working from memory, as Victor was using several sheaves of paper as references.

“You’re back,” the witch said, looking up from her work. She pointed to a spot to the right. “You may place those there.”

Steve, Pietro and Wanda deposited the items. Jorinda frowned when Steve told her that the woman had refused payment. “That was generous of Farah,” she commented with a wry twist of her lips. “Normally she would haggle worse than a camel merchant.”

“She seems to know you quite well,” Steve pointed out gently. The gasp and the pallor on the other woman’s face nagged at him for some reason.

“She knows the Wytchdottir,” Jorinda corrected. “It’s different.”

“How?”

“Does anyone know what Steven Rogers’ favourite colour is?” she asked in turn. “Or what is the fondest memories he had growing up?”

“Ah,” Steve murmured in understanding.

“You understand, don’t you?” she asked, looking up at him.

A tremulous hand laid hesitantly on his arm, the touch light and unsure. Incongruous with the show of decisiveness and calm serenity she had displayed throughout the past week. He realised belatedly that the rest had emptied out form the solar, leaving only him and the witch. He could not tell whether they were giving him a window of opportunity, or if the potential awkwardness was the impetus for them taking their leave.

He decided he did not care, pressing his lips gently on hers. His hands found hers and he clasped them gently, as their only connection of fingers and lips slowly strengthened from gentle flirtation into …

“Arden and Clinton are back,” came the crisp announcement from the solar’s doorway. Christabel stood straight, her icily beautiful face impassive.

Jorinda disengaged from their joined hands, the soft warmth of her skin replaced by the chill nip of the room. “Thank you,” she acknowledged. “I’ll pack my things and we’ll reconvene here after dinner.”

She left the room, not caring for Christabel’s pale blue eyes following her. Steve made to leave the room but the blonde mentalist’s slender arm barred his way.

“Do you mind?” he asked, feigning politeness he did not feel. There was something about the coldness in the blonde he did not like.

“This will only take a moment,” she replied, withdrawing her arm. “Please, take a turn around the room with me,” she requested.

“Did you actually say  _please_ ?” Steve couldn’t resist the verbal jab.

“I can be polite when the situation warrants it,” the mentalist returned.

“And this is such situation?” Steve retorted. “I must be special then.”

“For some reason, she thinks you are,” Christabel replied. “She is usually a good judge of character, and if I were to believe the masses, you are what you seemed to be.”

Steve just levelled her a look.  _Is she actually giving me the shovel talk?_

“I may not demonstrate it much, but I do consider her a friend.” She paused, giving Steve a look as if daring him to contradict her. When there was none forthcoming, she nodded and continued, “People have difficulty in seeing beyond the title Wytchdottir, or her power. I suspect strongly that you know what that is like.”

“You could say that,” Steve agreed.

“Good,” Christabel said. “It may not mean much, but you have my approval.”

“What?” Steve cracked with a small smile. “No shovel talk?”

“Do you intend to hurt her?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I don’t need to threaten to visit such horrors upon you that you will regret the day your parents ever met now, do I?”

Steve laughed out loud. Inwardly, he adjusted his opinion of the mentalist.

“Didn’t think I have a sense of humour, did we?” she asked rhetorically.

“Something like that,” Steve admitted abashedly.

“It’s a defence mechanism. You people kept shrieking your thoughts out loud that it takes all my willpower to block you out. Easiest workaround is to put you on your guard.” She grimaced at the admission. “Or stay close to Jory.”

“Any reason why?” Steve asked.

“She’s immune to psychic intrusion,” Christabel explained. “We’ve tested it. Nothing gets through her shield.”

“You could’ve just told us, you know,” Steve chided her.

“And lose the mystique? Where’s the fun in that?”

“You have no problems with Hank, though.”

“He is different,” Christabel agreed. “Perhaps being around telepaths have helped him subconsciously to filter his thoughts. And it was already a well-structured mind to begin with.”

“Did you just imply we’re a bunch of idiots?” Steve asked with a sidelong glance at her.

“There’s intelligence, and then there’s intelligence,” she answered. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Would you like to join me in the kitchen?”

“I could eat,” Steve said amiably.

“Yes, I know. It’s not fair, with your super-soldier metabolism” she said with a roll of her eyes. She poked at his stomach, eliciting a small giggle bubbling from him.

“Stop that!” he said with a chortle.

“Captain America’s  _ticklish?_ ” she wondered out loud, her fingers finding all the spots that sent Steve into paroxysms of giggles.

“Oh it is war,” he said, making a grab for her.

She danced out of his reached, running for the kitchen. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

Rogue and Cargill were staring at him when he rounded the corner of the dining room. Cargill was pointing towards the kitchen. “She went that way,” she supplied.

Rogue’s question of “Was the blonde actually giggling?” followed him as he sprinted towards the kitchen.

He halted at the kitchen door when he saw that Christabel was not alone. Victor, Arden and Clint were individually rummaging through the pantry and the fridge. Christabel seemed to be giving them instructions as she busied herself at the hob.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“She’s making us dinner,” Clint said, thumbing his hand towards the mentalist.

“She’s a certified chef,” Arden assured him.

“And he’s ticklish,” Christabel said, waving her hand at Steve.

“She discovered your weakness, Rogers!” Clint crowed.

“Captain America’s  _ticklish_ ?” Arden asked, echoing Christabel’s earlier query.

Steve blushed. “I’ll leave you guys to it,” he said hastily, backing away from the kitchen.

  
 

* * *

 

Christabel’s efforts in the kitchen had been a success. It certainly endeared her to Pietro and Clint, with both men scooping dregs of the hearty goulash with sourdough bread. Throughout dinner, the mentalist had an amused—if not beatific—expression as she observed the reaction to her cooking.

“I’ll hand it to you, Ms. Adare,” McCoy murmured after disguising a small burp—complete with asn apologetic expression. “You certainly know your way to a man’s heart.”

“I’ll have to agree,” Arden added his assent. “It’s your finest, yet.”

The group reconvened at the solar after dinner. Jorinda had traced over the earlier markings with the chalk Steve had brought over from his earlier excursion with Wanda and Pietro.

“So what happens now?” Steve asked after she had completed her work.

“We stand in the middle of the circle, of course,” Jorinda answered him with a smile. “Come along people, we don’t have all night.”

“Of course,” he returned drolly as he along with Clint, Natasha and Cargill joined Arden, Victor, Jorinda, Christabel and Adam inside the circle.

The witch uttered a complex string of words in a foreign tongue. The markings slowly flared to life, silver fire racing along the patterns and runes traced into the granite floor. The faint hum of harp strings picked up as little motes of silvery sparkles coalesced in the air around them. As the hum reaches its crescendo, Arden wrapped his arms around Victor’s waist. The silvery motes of light grew, turning incandescent as the spell worked to its ultimate conclusion.

“Next stop,” Jorinda announced with a small laugh, “Shadivari, the Land of Eternal Moonlight!”

The incandescence grew until Steve had to shut his eyes against the brightness. He felt a slight shift, as if he was stationary and unaffected as the earth continued spinning on its axis. A low rumble from Victor told him that the other man felt it too. He could feel little hints slowly coming to him that they had left the solar. The mansion.

Hell, even the material world.

The smell of wildflowers. The feel of a cool night breeze on his skin. There was that small sense unreality tingling around him as he slowly opened his eyes. He knew then that they have reached the Feywilds.

 

 

 

\------------------------------------  
  
**EPILOGUE**

 

The raven fluttered its wings. Something had awoken it. It cannot be seen. Only felt. There was something in the air … a gentle hush, pregnant with promise.

The full moon shone upon the land, bathing it in soft silvery glow. Overhead in the deep Prussian blue sweep of the sky, pinpricks of stars adorned the heavens in their eternal journey around the cosmos. The surrounding glade the raven made its home was undisturbed, the air still.

As if all of Shadivari was waiting for the arrival of something.

The return of her king.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Part I.   
> I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. It's not beta-ed, so please excuse the typos and slight errors.
> 
> Part II will pick up on the Avengers' stay in the Feywilds, and the appearance of one of their longtime foes.


End file.
